


Opposo Sentima Obsta Desiro

by chickenlivesinpumpkin



Series: It Started in the Shower [7]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Attempted Sexual Assault, Dark, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Explicit Language, Humiliation, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Oral Sex, Plotty, Possessive Behavior, Rimming, Semi-Public Sex, Somnophilia, Threats of Rape/Non-Con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-08
Updated: 2014-06-29
Packaged: 2018-02-03 20:17:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 32,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1756111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chickenlivesinpumpkin/pseuds/chickenlivesinpumpkin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's something seriously wrong with Harry. His craving for Malfoy is out of control. He's trying desperately to hold on, but his urges are getting darker and crueler, and soon even Ron and Hermione may not be able to keep Malfoy safe...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. His to Protect

**Author's Note:**

> I am making no money from this whatsoever and I own no part of these characters or story.
> 
> This segment of the story will have multiple chapters, and I'll be posting those at about the same time interval as I've been posting complete parts before (roughly once a week). But these pieces are more tightly interwoven, plot-wise, so it makes more sense to keep them together.

Things were getting out of control.

Actually, Harry had to admit, they’d been out of control for a while. They were Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy, and they'd barely said two civilized words their whole lives, so it wasn't surprising that the sex would be rough. They'd gotten heavy and dirty fast, and they both liked it that way. But then it got heavier and rougher and dirtier, and the slow slide, so easily missed for being gradual, began to look impossible to reverse. Harry had noticed it a few weeks ago, that there was something off about them together, but other, more important things happened, and it was easier to put it aside. 

But it hadn’t gone away, the wrongness.

It was small at first—he couldn’t remember the last time they’d had sex without Harry calling Draco a slut or a whore; he caught a glimpse of a bruise he’d left on Draco’s arm where he’d grabbed him; a few days later, a welt spilled blood during a routine spanking, evidence that Harry was going too hard and too often; the evening last week when he’d suddenly realized he hadn’t let Draco come in nearly two days despite the seemingly endless fucking they engaged in—but added together, these incidents became a sign of a larger, ongoing problem that was rapidly getting worse.

No, things were not _getting_ out of control.

They were bordering on absolute, destructive anarchy.

Part of his brain realized this. There was a little voice in his head saying _this is not right, something is going on, something is definitely at work here that is not Harry, and it’s getting worse, hey, you, stop fucking for two seconds and think with something other than your cock._

But the rest of him woke up before dawn on Thursday morning, four and a half weeks into Draco Malfoy’s little visit to Grimmauld Place, and thought it was a grand idea to spend the day in bed, thinking with his cock. The little voice couldn’t compete with Harry’s nonsensical need for the pale boy lying asleep beside him. The part of his brain that still grasped feebly at rationality had no influence on Harry’s plan for the day, which was to fuck Draco over and over and over, until he begged for mercy.

He began by summoning lube, then cast a _lumos._

The other boy was still asleep, and Harry knew from experience that he could get pretty far along without waking him, as Draco somehow slept the sleep of the guiltless despite his many sins. So Harry shifted his pillows downwards, rolled Draco limply onto his stomach upon them so his arse was propped up, pushed his legs wide, and studied the exposed balls and arsehole at his leisure. He stroked himself a bit as he did this—how could he not? Every inch of Draco was exquisite. Pink and pale and lean and supple and utterly, breathtakingly beautiful.

And still deeply asleep. Harry smiled.

He trailed his fingers along the crease of Draco’s buttocks, his smile widening. The many things he planned to do to this body nearly overwhelmed him.

“Today you’re going to be my whore,” he said, somewhat affectionately.

The little voice in his head said, _careful, dummy. Something’s not right._

The rest of him thrummed with the need to take, to possess, to master.

And that part of him won.

He set to mouthing Draco’s buttocks, licking and nipping at the milky skin eagerly. He loved the very sight of the boy spread out beneath him; his hands were already trembling, and he realized very quickly that he wasn’t going to last very long. Maybe best to get this first shag out of the way. Relax a little so he could take his time.

So he lubed up his fingers and roughly began to open Draco up.

The other boy stirred, eyes opening heavily with sleepy confusion just as Harry entered him. By that time the need was a pulse sounding throughout his body; Harry was holding Draco open and pounding into the smaller boy with bone-crashing force without a single thought in his head besides _mine, mine, mine._

He came quickly, and with a shout.

*

Ron rolled over in bed at the distant cry that came through the walls, slinging an arm across Hermione’s naked belly. “There it is,” he said, and chuckled.

“At least they’re getting it out of their systems now,” she said, and yawned. “We’ll get an early start.”

“I can think of other things we can do with an early start,” Ron said, his thumb tracing the inside of her hipbone. “Or were you that eager to get back to…er, what was it?”

“ _Verago’s Spellary of Elaborate Dooming Spells.”_

“Yeah, fascinating reading, I’m sure,” Ron said, rolling his eyes.

“Oh, it is,” she said earnestly. “He posits that all dark magic originates in a base of light magic, and that it’s actually an inversion of the base wish that leads to—”

“Brainy?” Ron said, and rolled on top of her with an openhearted smile. “I don’t care even a little bit at the moment.” He kissed her. “I’ll care later, I promise, but right now…I’ve got something else in mind.”

“Mmm,” she said, and as his lips descended to the curve of her neck, she sighed. “But fair warning. That means the lecture will be longer.”

“A worthwhile trade.”

“Call me Brainy again.”

He grinned.

*

It had started normally enough—just a shag after Harry found Draco in his shower one morning. It hadn’t seemed odd at the time that two enemies should so quickly and easily find their way into excellent sex. But in retrospect, in his saner moments, Harry was beginning to realize that there was absolutely nothing normal about the effortless way he and Draco had simply put all of their baggage aside.

Yes, they still fought, but now, the barbed insults they hurled at each other resonated more like come-ons than fuck-offs. And the things Harry found himself saying when they were gasping and locked together…dark and brutal things, full of power and need, meant to arouse, to control, to humiliate. Sometimes, those words would come out of his mouth, and Harry would think _if someone said that to Hermione or Ron or Ginny, I would be smashing teeth right now._ Sometimes, he thought it was okay, because Draco didn’t seem to mind being spoken to that way. God knew the sex was spectacular, even if Harry wondered if the arrogant and proud Draco Malfoy liked being called a cock-sucking whore because he actually liked it or if he liked it because the universe had broken, and Draco with it.

And even that wasn't the real issue.  Draco had said before that they had the right to fuck the way they wanted to fuck, and Harry agreed with him about that. It was okay because they had trust, an unspoken agreement that they would put aside the language and the spanking and the subjugation—and the impulse behind them all—when they weren’t having sex. Harry would never really hurt Draco, and Draco would never really want him to.

No, the problem was not the dirty words he spoke or the games that got them both hot.

The problem was that Harry was starting to mean it, and not just when they were fucking. The part of him that knew this was just a game--the part that did not actually want to abuse Draco's body or spirit--was crumbling.

But he couldn’t stop. The part of him that knew something was seriously wrong wasn’t in charge anymore.

*

Harry pulled Draco up onto his elbows and knees, knocking the pillows away with an impatient swipe.

“Put your face on the mattress, little cat. I want to see your arse in the air.”

Draco obeyed with a moan.

“Spread your thighs. Farther.”

When Draco was positioned as he liked, Harry reached down and shoved three fingers in his hole. Come and lube made for a slick passage, and his hand moved freely, brushing gently over the other boy’s prostate, delving deep and quick. Draco’s hips began to dance.

“You like that, don’t you?” Harry asked.

“Yes,” Draco said, pushing back into the questing touch.

“Reach back. Hold yourself open for me.”

Draco did as he was bid, balancing the weight of his upper body on his face, collecting his buttocks and pulling them wide. Harry began to get hard again at the sight.

“I’m not going to let you come for a while,” Harry warned him, pleased by the groan he received in response. “No, none of that. You’re my whore. My little fuck-toy. And fucktoys don’t come. They serve. Say it.”

“I…I serve.”

“Good boy.” He used his other hand to stroke his own cock, which was responding quite rapidly. “Ask me.”

“Please fuck me,” Draco asked.

“That’s not a question,” Harry teased.

“Will you please fuck me?”

“Why should I?”

“I…I’ll make you feel good.”

“You better,” Harry said. “In fact, I think I’ll give you…three minutes to make me come. And for every ten seconds you go over, that’s one spank. Just to help you learn your lesson.”

Draco moaned. “Yes, Harry.”

“Yes, _sir.”_

Draco repeated it, his voice breathy and high, and the sound of the title gave Harry such a thrill that he all but ripped his fingers out of Draco’s body. He cast a glowing Tempus Charm, leaving a small watch hanging in the air to keep track of the time. He tossed his wand aside and thrust into the smaller boy with a long stroke, before becoming still.

“You can put your hands down and lift up. I’m not cruel.”

Draco pushed up so that he was on all fours. Then he began to move. He rocked back onto Harry’s cock, his back bending and arching in a graceful rhythm, his hips wriggling in an adorably desperate way. Over and over again he did this, pushing back then dragging forward, buttocks beginning to slap against Harry’s hips as he picked up speed. His breath began to pant at the effort, and Harry watched his cock sink in and reappear through that pink ring of muscle with a dizzy head.

_Hold on,_ he told himself. He had no intention of coming until Draco had earned a heavy share of spanks, even though it was rapidly becoming difficult to remember why that should matter. The feel of the warm, tight arse around his cock made his brain go blank.

“That’s three minutes,” Harry said breathlessly.

Draco let out a soft cry, working harder and faster against the cock inside of him. He was really moving now, impaling himself with healthy force, thighs and arms trembling.

“Six spanks,” Harry was saying. “Seven. Eight.”

By the time they hit thirty, Draco was frantic, moving as fast and hard as he could, and Harry decided to take pity on the boy. He let one hand come down to grope one smooth, round buttock (still bearing welts and bruises from the previous days' spankings) and squeezed viciously hard, and he came with the sound of Draco’s yip of pain ringing in his ears.

He flipped the other boy onto his back, and leaned down, taking the long, thick cock into his mouth with no small amount of enthusiasm. He loved sucking Draco, mostly because of the way the other boy lost all inhibition under his mouth. Harry took him deep, too. He licked and tasted until precome wet his lips. He abandoned the cock then, in favor of the balls that lay heavy and firm beneath. He took them into his mouth, one at a time, gentle and tender, making Draco tremble. Then he went back to that perfect cock, sucking until Draco was writhing.

By this time, Harry was already getting hard again.

It hadn’t been that long—more than five minutes, but certainly not ten, and he was a little impressed by his rapid recovery. He really did enjoy having Draco between his lips.

But he pulled off. Draco groaned in protest.

“No,” Harry said firmly. “There’s the small matter of a spanking you’ve earned.”

*

After their shower, Ron and Hermione left their bedroom to head downstairs together. They paused in tandem, however, just outside Harry’s door, and looked at each other with matching expressions of awkward amusement.

The sound of palm on buttock resounded quite unmistakably.

“I suppose Malfoy was naughty again,” Ron said.

“Ron!” Hermione whispered, half-scandalized, half-laughing.

“I wonder what that’s like,” Ron mused, waggling a suggestive eyebrow. “Spanking.”

“Keep it up and you’ll find out,” she replied.

“Promises, promises,” he said, galumphing down the stairs toward the kitchen. That boy, Hermione thought fondly, was always in search of food.

Then another crack came through the door, followed by a moan that echoed—to Hermione’s ears, at least—with more pain than pleasure, and her smile fell away.

*

Harry didn’t go easy on Draco. The first spank was as heavy as the last, despite the number in the queue. By the time he was done, Draco’s buttocks were brutally red and inflamed, dotted with thick welts. Harry tipped him upright, looked into that pale face, and soothed tears from sweet cheeks with soft kisses. He held Draco on his lap, the sore arse resting directly on Harry’s brutally hard cock, and crooned his pleasure with the other boy.

“Such a good boy. You’ll be better behaved now, won’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Next time you’ll make me come in the time frame I give you, won’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s my little cat.”

Harry kissed him, long and slow and soft, letting Draco sink into the wetness and heat. The other boy's erection had waned somewhat in the latter half of the spanking, but it came back with a vengeance now, so that the smaller body began to tighten and quiver.

Harry reached down and palmed Draco’s cock, rubbing it with a gentle hand. “Do you think you deserve to come, yet?”

“Please, sir,” Draco gasped.

“Have you been good enough?”

“I hope so, sir.”

“Maybe soon.”

The groan that came from the other boy now smacked of frustration.

Harry loved it. He loved all of it. His cock was pounding, his blood rushing in his veins. He could hear his pulse in his temples somehow. This was all he wanted.

He tugged Draco up onto the bed on his back, and straddled him. He leaned down, still kissing and touching, darkly pleased with the way Draco arched and clung.

“Not yet. First, you’re going to suck me.”

He cast a quick cleansing spell. Draco was going to learn very soon what it was to give a rim job, so it didn’t really matter at this point where his cock had been, but if it kept the other boy from whinging, all the better. Draco began to sit up, but Harry pushed him back. He took up the abandoned pillows and shoved them behind Draco’s neck, smiling at the slightly confused look on the other boy’s face. He’d only ever sucked Harry while on his knees.

“Stay like this,” Harry growled. “Just like this.”

He crawled upward, moving so that he was on one knee with the rest of his weight propped up on one foot. With one hand, he directed Draco’s face towards him.

“Suck. All the way down.”

Draco paused. “Did you…did you clean it?”

“Yes,” Harry replied, his tone hard. “Although I’m not sure there was much point, since you’ll be licking my arse in a few minutes anyway. We’re just warming up, Draco.”

The look of distress on Draco’s face made Harry’s cock jerk. It also made the little voice in his head speak up once more. _He doesn’t want to._

Harry argued back freely. _He didn’t want to suck me off, either, and he ended up loving it._

The little voice was not impressed. _That’s different from arse-licking, don’t you think?_

Harry’s answer came easily: _I don’t think I care._

The little voice tried one last time: _You’ll care when this wears off, whatever it is, and he’s less predisposed to letting you near him again._

Harry thought hard: _shut up._

In an effort to assuage that guilty feeling (so small compared to the craving), Harry ran a gentle hand over Draco’s cheek. “Easy, little cat. It won’t hurt you, and you might even like it. Give it a chance. Once. If you don’t care for it, we won’t do it again. But you didn’t want to suck me off at first and it turned out you liked that, didn’t you?”

Draco nodded slowly.

“So we’ll start with sucking. And then we’ll move on.”

Draco still seemed uncertain, but he opened his mouth anyway.

Harry took what was offered, and eased inside.

In just a few moments, he was groaning and thrusting, stroking Draco’s temple soothingly, loving the way the other boy’s hands came up to grip his hips. _He’s trying to control how deep you thrust,_ the little voice warned. _You might be hurting him._

This only made him harder. Because Draco was his to hurt.

However, this thought bothered him enough to make him ease the force and speed. For a second, clarity emerged, like sunlight piercing temporarily through heavy, dark clouds. He didn’t want to hurt Draco. Draco was his to _protect_. Then, when Harry paused, the other boy made a questioning sound, a soft, sexy _mmm_ from beneath him, and that was all it took to let the clouds close and bring back the dark.

With a tug, he slid loose, and moved so that his arsehole hovered above the other boy’s face. “Lick it,” he ordered. His voice was so rough it was nearly unrecognizable.

Hesitation from beneath him, and then a soft, reluctant tongue brushed the skin between his cheeks. It came again, timid and nervous, but this time it landed directly on Harry’s hole, and he groaned loudly.

“Yes. Good boy. You’re doing so well.”

The touch of the velvet tongue came once more, more confidently now, stroking and tasting, and soon some—if not all—of the unwillingness was gone. Harry grinned ferally in the dim light given off by his wand. He’d known, hadn’t he? Draco was prim and elegant and pureblooded on the surface, but underneath, he was a proper slut. Harry loved it. Harry loved _him_.

He went still, shock coursing through him. The mouth against his hole moved gently and warmly, eager to please if not wholly enjoying the act, and all Harry could think was _I love him and he doesn’t want to do this._

He jerked back. “Draco,” he murmured. “I’m sorry.”

But something immediately began to reassert itself, some heavy weight of intent that didn’t care how Harry felt about Draco’s wants. Need crashed into his belly, hot and fast and demanding, and he was moving back into place, ignoring the confusion in Draco’s face at his indecision, part of Harry frightened now at how very disordered his head felt, but driven to continue nonetheless.

He needed Draco, he craved the pale flesh and the red lips and the supple, writhing body. In fact, just as Draco began to lick at him again, he twisted, turning so that he could reach Draco’s cock—once more only half-hard—and while Draco licked up into his hole once more, he sucked the other boy’s cock to the root.

Draco cried out against his flesh, but Harry barely heard it. He was consumed by a desire to fill the other boy, to absorb all of him, his mouth, his arse, his cock. He had to possess the boy, drain him dry, exhaust him of his will to be anything but Harry’s own.

Draco’s tongue wormed its way inside him, a little at a time, and Harry groaned around the cock in his mouth, now full and hard and silky against his lips. The tongue began to thrust, in and out, repeatedly, and Harry gave one last suck, making Draco’s limber body arch beneath him, before yanking away and spinning once more on the bed.

Before he knew what he was doing, he was shoving Draco’s thighs wide and ramming deeply into the other boy.

“I’ll never stop fucking you,” he swore. “Never. You’re mine, little cat. Say it.”

“I’m yours, Harry,” Draco whispered. His hands were locked into claws in the sheets, his cock bobbing and dripping between them. Harry thrust harder and harder, each movement taking them across the bed until he had fucked the other boy almost off the opposite edge. Draco’s head hung down, his eyes closed, mouth half-open and gasping.

“Please,” Draco murmured. “Let me come.”

Harry almost didn’t care if Draco came, except that the animal that had somehow taken over his body wanted it to be clear that Draco was so totally his that Harry controlled even this, this elemental function of Draco’s sexuality.

Harry wrapped a hand around Draco’s cock. He tugged and pulled, and very quickly semen was spilling over his fingers.

This triggered his own orgasm, and he came with a growling shout, his voice cracking.

But he stayed hard.

*

Hermione glanced up at the ceiling. They’d heard two voices raised in obvious orgasm just a minute ago—she had blushed and Ron had shaken his head—but now the bed frame was banging against the wall again.

“Do you think there’s something…” Hermione trailed off.

Ron looked distinctly uncomfortable. “What?”

“I’m worried,” she admitted.

“Oh, crap,” Ron said. He let the book he was thumbing through ( _Jinxes and Hexes for Every Occasion!)_ fall to his lap.“This is going to end with me going up there and seeing something I have absolutely no desire to see, isn’t it?”

“You don’t think there’s something odd about Harry and Draco lately?”

“Has there ever _not_ been something odd about those two being together?” Ron pointed out.

“It’s too much.”

“They’re in that new stage. I hear it’s intense.”

“We’re in that new stage,” she said, sounding cross. “We’re not shagging six times a day.”

“We could be,” he returned. “If you’d just go along with it.”

She would not be distracted. “That’s my point. No one should want to have sex six times a day, every day, for three weeks straight. It’s impossible to keep that kind of schedule going.” She made a face. “And just imagine the chafing.”

Ron blinked. “You think Malfoy drugged him or something?”

“Not unless he drugged himself, too,” she said. “I haven’t heard him complaining.”

“Hell,” Ron said. “Do I really have to do this?”

“We’ve been down here reading for nearly two hours while they’re having fun. And they started before we did.” Hermione glanced at her hands. “Even if we weren’t in the process of something a bit more important than setting the world record for the number of shags in a day, this would be excessive.”

“I’ll knock. But I’m not going in. I’m not.”

Hermione gnawed on a thumbnail. “Listen closely.”

“For what?” Ron asked distastefully.

“For someone calling for help.”

He suddenly went pale. “You’re serious.”

“Gut feeling.”

Ron got up without another word and climbed the stairs.

*

“Harry,” Draco murmured. “Harry, I’m…I’m getting pretty sore.”

Harry continued to thrust. And thrust. He’d come again, somewhere in there, he thought, and somehow, almost as if by magic, retained his erection again. He tipped Draco’s hips back, adjusting the angle, and heard the other boy gasp as pleasure ran through him again.

“What about now?” he growled.

The other boy spread his thighs still further.

“That’s what I thought,” Harry bit out. “Lift your arse, slut.”

And Draco obeyed.

Harry went harder, deeper, fucking so thoroughly that it wasn’t long before Draco was backing into him with soft cries falling from his lips. It was even faster this time; Harry’s orgasm appeared out of nowhere, slamming into him like a steam engine, annihilating all thought and reason. Draco unraveled beneath him a heartbeat later, but Harry didn’t stop thrusting. Why should he? He was still hard.

“Harry,” Draco said, “That hurts.”

That small, sane part of Harry’s brain registered that this was a bad thing—Draco being in pain—but the mad whirl of need in him had no interest in stopping.

A loud knock on the door startled them both into stillness, and Draco carefully eased away.

“Open the door, Harry.”

Ron. Harry blinked. Why was Ron here? He glanced around the room, realized daylight shone through the curtains at the window. He could’ve sworn it was still nighttime. His mouth was dry—God, he was thirsty. He had to piss. And he was tired. And…sore…all of sudden his cock _hurt._ He winced, and glanced around again, wanting to ask Draco how the hell they’d managed to have so much sex that he’d rubbed himself raw without even realizing. But when he found him, the sight of the other boy made him suck in a breath. His little cat was kneeling, hands behind his back, in the submissive posture Harry had taught him a few weeks ago, his lips bright red and chapped, his whole body trembling with aftershocks of orgasm and exhaustion.

The only thing that ruined the eroticism of the picture was the wariness in his eyes as he flicked a glance up at Harry. And Harry wondered if the submission before him wasn’t part of the game they played but an attempt to avoid setting him off again.

“Draco,” he whispered.

“Now, Harry,” Ron said, his voice hard and brooking no argument.

But Harry could only look at Draco.

“There’s something wrong with me,” Harry whispered. He took a step toward the other boy, meaning to soothe.

Draco looked, for a brief second, almost, nearly, not quite frightened, and Harry stopped short. There were other words ( _concerned, worried, alarmed_ ) that weren’t exactly right either, but if there was a perfect description of the emotion Draco wore in that second, Harry couldn’t find it. He also couldn’t bear to look at it, even fleeting as it was. He looked down, abashed, confused, and saw blood on his cock. His gut went ice cold, and he stumbled back.

The bedroom door opened, and Ron stood at the threshold. A flip of his hand got the light on. He took in the scene quickly and Harry saw the exact moment he saw the blood, because his skin went white beneath his freckles.

It would’ve been hard to miss now that the room was bright—there were small smears on Harry’s thighs as well.

“Malfoy, how badly are you injured?” Ron asked.

A pause. “I’m fine.”

“Get dressed,” Ron said firmly, perhaps even calmly, even though he clearly didn’t believe Draco’s claims and his blue eyes were wide and apprehensive. “Both of you. Now.”

Harry and Draco obeyed, numb and silent and awkward, cleaning up and visiting the bathroom to shower quickly in turns. The guilty, awful feeling continued to grow in Harry’s chest, but he didn’t know what to say, what to do to make it go away—and he suspected he didn’t deserve for it to go anywhere anyway.

They began to follow Ron downstairs, and Harry realized that Draco was limping. They’d taken care of the blood, but a healing charm would be necessary to heal the damage of such heavy, nonstop sex on the smaller boy. He would have Hermione do it, Harry decided—she was better at those. The idea of hurting Draco badly enough that Harry’s own spellwork was insufficient made him want to cringe.

Harry abruptly reached out, taking Draco’s arm gently and stopping them on the stairs. “You’re moving your things out of my bedroom as soon as Ron gets a minute to help you. And you’ll stay in the house but in a different room until we figure this out. It has to be that way. Do you understand?”

Part of him roared in rage and possessiveness at the fact that he’d just said this. _Mine, mine, mine._ His whole body shuddered. He forced himself to take in the shadows beneath Draco’s eyes, to remember the way the other boy was walking, to remember the promise Harry had made him when he first came to Grimmauld Place. He reiterated it now. “I won’t hurt you. I refuse. And if that means you have to stay away from me for a while, then you have to stay away.”

Pain tightened his belly at the thought of letting the other boy move out, even just down the hall, and he bent over, gasping.

Then Draco was in his arms, and the pain eased as quickly as it had come.

“No,” Harry said. “Don’t.” But even as he spoke, he was pulling that slim, vulnerable body closer to his, squeezing his eyes tightly to better concentrate on soft skin, small bones, and sweet-smelling hair.

“Shut the fuck up.”

“You can’t let me hold you. Not after what I did to—”

“If you’re thinking the word ‘rape’, I’m going to hurt you,” Draco said resolutely.

“You were bleeding.”

“You didn’t know. Hell, I didn’t even know.”

“I promised I wouldn’t hurt you,” Harry whispered.

“I didn’t say no. I didn’t _mean_ no. Not until the very end, and Weasel interrupted before you could stop on your own. And you would’ve. You didn’t rape me, so stop being an imbecile. The guilt is unnecessary.”

“Draco—”

“You would’ve stopped.”

Harry wasn’t sure he would have. He didn’t say it, but he wasn’t sure, and that scared him so badly he couldn’t think for a moment. All he could do was clutch the other boy close as tides of guilt swept within him.

“Don’t make it easier on me,” Harry whispered.

“You’re pissing me off,” Draco said. He pulled away slightly so he could make eye contact. “Don’t you dare try to decide what I wanted and when. I decide for me. I’m not brainwashed and whatever games we might play, I’m not cowed by your power, Potter. If you ever do try to rape me, believe me, I won’t let you off the damn hook. You’ll be hexed and screaming in pain so fast your head will spin, and I’ll make sure man and God alike know how badly you’re going to burn for it.”

Harry wanted to believe him, but the speech reeked of the same undertone of falsity from which Draco’s submissive pose upstairs had suffered. As if the words were only spoken because Draco knew just what Harry would need to hear to stay intact. _You would’ve stopped._

Was that even Draco talking? Or was there something crouched inside him as well, speaking and acting, while underneath the real Draco worried and begged?

Harry looked deep into grey eyes, taking in the strain in Draco’s face.  He bent down, moving slowly and carefully, and pressed a soft kiss to the other boy’s lips. “I love you,” he said.

Draco startled, his mouth unresponsive until he adjusted to Harry’s words. Then he kissed him back, wrapping his arms around Harry’s neck. For a moment it was sweet, achingly sweet, until the need rushed back, making Harry tremble, and he all but shoved the other boy away.

“Ron,” he gasped. He glanced at his best friend, and saw that the redhead had his wand out, a grim expression on his face. Grateful for that, for the seriousness with which the situation was being treated, he added, “Don’t let me hurt Draco. Please.”

“I won’t,” Ron said. “Now let’s go downstairs. You’ll stay on opposite sides of the room. Harry will warn us if he starts getting…whatever. And we’ll figure this out.”

“How do you know?” Draco asked, sounding suddenly uncertain.

Ron gave him a half-smile. “We’ve got Hermione,” he said firmly. “We always figure it out.”

“You should save comments like that for when she’s in the room,” Harry said numbly, trying to breathe. _It will get fixed, and until then, just be normal._ “You’ll get more points.”

“I have enough points for one day.”

“Oh?” Harry resumed walking, careful to avoid touching Draco as he went.

“Yeah. It’s because of her orders that I saw Malfoy’s balls.” Ron laughed, resignation mixed with honest amusement. “Don’t think she won’t have to make that up to me.”

Harry forced a smile, even as he tried desperately to bury the urge to strike his best mate for seeing Draco naked.

Yes. Something was very, very wrong.


	2. The Draco Formerly Known as Malfoy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I own none of this, unfortunately, and am making no money from any of it.

 

He didn’t know how to behave.

One day, he was a Malfoy. He had a family and a Manor and a Mark and a mission and people who knew him and what to expect from him, and he knew how to meet those expectations.

Now he was only Draco, and he had no family or Manor, and the Mark was a lie, the mission had failed, and the people around him did not know him, they had bizarre expectations that he did not know how to meet.

Every time he began to find his balance, the world turned again, upheaval shook the earth, and he could only dance around like a fool trying to stay on his feet. He was running away from home, eating Muggle cereal out of a box while sitting next to a mudblood who sometimes made him laugh, he was abandoning his values, letting a boy with green eyes, hard hands, and a soft mouth turn him inside out.

He let these things happen, and told himself that if he simply remembered to insult people sometimes, maybe no one would notice that he had lost all sense of who he was. Sometimes, he thought he’d gotten away with it. Other times, he thought maybe they all knew he was faking, but just didn’t care enough to point it out.

Potter touched him, and Draco liked it, even when it hurt, maybe even mostly when it hurt, because it made the noise and the space in his head go away, and he didn’t have to ascribe a name to who he was anymore. It didn’t matter that the Malfoy part was gone or that the Draco part was crumbling. In those moments, he could simply be the little cat that Potter called him, without higher thought or responsibilities or questions that he could not answer. He could just be.

Potter had said he loved him. Draco didn’t believe him, but he wanted to.

*

“Could you please take off your trousers, Draco?” Granger asked, ever so polite.

“No. For the hundredth time, no. Actually, not even no. Hell no. Fuck no. Never going to happen no.” Draco already felt exposed enough, thank you very much, and could think of nothing he wanted less than for everyone to see right through his skin to the weakness underneath.

Draco Malfoy, heir to a family and a fortune, would’ve found it easy to get rid of her—a blood-based slur or two, perhaps a sexually threatening comment, a lewd glance, and she’d have stopped caring about the state of his arse soon enough. But Draco (sans Malfoy, sans Manor, sans Self) didn’t want to do or say any of those things, and even though he thought he would probably have to in a minute, he doubted it was going to scare Granger into backing off.

He didn’t feel very scary of late. Just scared.

He clutched at pride that wasn’t his, and put on an attitude he didn’t deserve, and pretended to be the pureblood scion that he used to be, hoping he would get out of this conversation with his pants on, and thought _it’s still better than kneeling in front of the Dark Lord._

The parlor at Grimmauld Place was Draco’s favorite room. It reminded him of the Manor a little, with its high, wide windows lushly curtained in green velvet, and the rich, dark fabric on the chaises and chairs. The advanced age of the furniture (none of which folded, which Draco had half-expected, given that Potter lived here) meant antique, not worn, and every bit of it was stylish, if perpetually dusty due to that horrifically inept house elf to which Potter mysteriously refused to give clothes. Draco found it exceedingly comfortable and strangely familiar. But after the morning he’d had, even this room was not enough to settle his nerves.

Everyone else had lost their minds, and they were trying to drag Draco with them, all because Potter had told Granger to heal the tear in Draco’s arse that Potter himself had put there.

Yes, he was still bleeding. He and Potter had been rough enough in the past that he’d bled a little, but that was superficial, the result of friction and heavy use, the sort of shallow wound any halfway competent wizard could heal with a quick spell to get rid of irritation and the minor sting. What he had now was a legitimate tear, and that was different, something that might not resolve on its own if left alone. Yes, it did hurt, and rather badly, actually, when he moved. And no, he had absolutely no intention of letting Granger aim her wand at his posterior, regardless of how talented she might be with advanced healing charms. And especially not with Potter lurking nearby and Weasel watching like he was seeing Christmas unfold for the first time.

If a few days went by and it hadn’t made decent progress healing on its own, he would figure out a way to handle it himself.

Although that meant Quidditch was out for a while, he mused. Ditto for sitting.

Not that he had a broom. He did have a chair though. In the corner. He often sat in the blue one, and the others had left it to him. He’d started to think of it as his, even though he knew that was a lie—like everything else that he used here, it was actually Potter’s. The shampoo he’d used to wash his hair, the bed he’d slept in (and been fucked in), the breakfast he would eventually eat…all Potter’s. Draco was little more than his pet.

Draco wasn’t sure that it was such a bad thing. Pets didn’t suffer from existential questions. At least, he thought with a frown, he didn’t think they did.

Of course, if he was going to belong to someone, he could certainly do worse. Not only because Potter was a generally decent sort (particularly when he wasn’t possessed), but at some point post-puberty, the other boy had become certifiably…attractive. If you liked a sweet mouth and bright eyes with dense lashes and broad shoulders and a surprisingly well-muscled body with trim hips and a flat belly leading to a thick cock with large bollocks, anyway.

Draco seemed to like that just fine, but he sometimes wondered who the fuck he thought he was fooling. He spent half his time trying to convince himself that he wouldn’t spread his thighs for Potter at a single glance, and the rest of his time so turned on at the idea that he really didn’t care how pathetic that made him.

“If Harry’s thinking it’s bad enough to require my help, Draco…” Granger said.

“Oh, for the love of Merlin, shut up,” Draco said tiredly.

“Watch it, you,” Weasel said, brandishing his wand as if he thought that would intimidate anyone.

Draco rolled his eyes, ignoring him in favor of the original problem. Now seemed like the time for one of those obnoxious comments that he used to be so good at. “Bleat at me some other time, Granger. Much as it might brighten up your life a little, I will not now, nor ever, show you my bare arse.”

Granger flushed a vibrant pink. He must not have lost his touch after all. She even stuttered. “That is not…don’t make it sound…” She broke off, teeth grinding. “It isn’t like that and you know it, you little snot. Now turn around and bend over.”

Draco laughed sourly. “With so little foreplay, Granger, I’m going to start thinking you’re Potter.”

Weasel scowled. “Malfoy, I’m going to give you one last chance to watch your mouth.”

“Or what?”

“Draco,” Potter said, from where he hovered in the shadows in the corner of the room. “Shut your damn mouth, drop your pants, and bend the fuck over. Now.”

For a moment the room was absolutely silent. Draco swallowed. He heard his father’s voice quite clearly then: _A Malfoy does not bend his knee to anyone of lesser birth, circumstances, or power._

But then, look where that little code of conduct had gotten them—straight into the arms of another grand Malfoy family tradition, one that Draco privately thought of as _being the bitch._ If Draco had to bend the knee (or bend over) for a master, better Potter than the Dark Lord.

“And if I don’t?” he asked finally, more out of curiosity than defiance.

“I will come over there and shove you down and tear the clothes from your body. My control being what it is at the moment, I’m inclined to think that will end badly. So just fucking do it.”

Even a couple weeks ago, Draco would’ve blown the threat off. But Potter had developed a slowly-widening streak of instability, such that Draco did not doubt for a second that Potter would do it. Neither did he doubt that Potter _could_ do it.

Draco glanced at Granger; she wasn’t rubbing it in, as Draco probably once would have. She looked uneasy about Potter’s stance.

Draco closed his eyes for a second. He supposed even a kind master must be obeyed, or else he would be called _friend,_ instead.

“Does Weasel have to be here for this?” Draco asked emptily.

“Yes,” Potter said. His voice abruptly softened. “These two are all that stand between you and me right now, little cat. I need them here. Now strip. Please.”

“’Please’ implies choice,” Draco said flatly, dropping his hands to his belt. With weary, cold hands, he pulled the buckle open. He normally didn’t wear pants with this pair of trousers; they fucked up the cut of the fabric, but he’d been bleeding, and he was not about to ruin expensive cotton because Potter got rambunctious. This meant that Granger and Weasel immediately got an eyeful of bloody napkins being removed with shaking hands. He tossed them in the trash and vanished them with a sweep of his wand before he dropped trou for their perusal.

Weasel made a grunting noise of shock.

“Holy fuck,” Granger whispered.

“Careful, Granger. Use of language like that will confirm certain class stereotypes,” Draco said bitterly, bending over the back of the chaise. “Can we please get on with this?”

He didn’t have to look at what had caused their reactions; he’d seen it in the bathroom mirror not twenty minutes ago after his shower. His buttocks, lower back and upper thighs were thoroughly welted, moderately swollen, and bore a full rainbow of bruises in various stages of healing—sickly green, deep purple, streaks of blue. Now, of course, there was blood along the crease of his cheeks from the tear.

Potter had developed a heavy hand recently.

Draco had not wanted to see their faces, but when an entire minute passed and no one said or did anything, he summoned enough irritation to bear up under scrutiny. He turned his head.

Weasel looked faintly sick.

Granger had tears in her eyes.

Potter looked aroused.

Par for the course on that last one, Draco figured wryly.

“Harry,” Granger whispered. “You did this?”

“Don’t you feel sorry for me,” Draco snapped. “He didn’t do a damn thing I didn’t want him to.”

“You wanted this?” Weasel asked incredulously.

Draco closed his eyes. As if he needed Weasel to point out how much of a freak he was. _Malfoys don’t apologize, Malfoys don’t feel shame._ That might have been helpful if Draco were still a Malfoy. Instead, he just felt like the worst kind of fool—a boy who would let another boy do anything he wanted if he would only hold him close afterwards.

“Granger? Please? Or are you planning on letting Weasel jerk off first?”

Unfortunately, the words lacked their usual bite. He could feel the blood in his face, and he couldn’t quite conceal the humiliation he felt at being so exposed. He sounded more like a kid playing at being tough. Weasel certainly thought so; rather than responding to the dig, his gaze softened and he gave Granger a nudge.

“I’ll heal the tear first,” she said, a little wobbly. “Then the, um, bruises…”

“Leave them,” Potter said, still hiding in his shadowy little corner, voice thick and deep. “The marks stay. Just fix the tear.”

Draco glanced at him, intending to keep it brief, but he was caught. The green eyes that so often shone with compassion or righteous anger appeared nearly wild. Potter’s gaze traced over Draco’s abused flesh with a hunger that made heat and fear curl together in his belly.

Potter began to pace, his expressive face taking on sharper lines. His breathing sped up.

“Harry,” Granger said hesitantly. “Those bruises are—”

She was a mudblood, she was obnoxious, and she clearly didn’t know shit about Potter when he was in this mood. Draco decided to save her life anyway.

“Just heal the tear,” he said quietly, and sent her a warning glance and a tiny shake of his head when she seemed about to protest. “It’s fine.”

“Doesn’t it hurt to sit, man?” Weasel asked, wincing.

“Yes.”

And in truth, weird as it maybe seemed, Draco sort of liked it. Not the tear; that kind of injury had a different set of connotations that he was not comfortable with but was managing to not think about at the moment. The bruises—and the dull pain that accompanied him—were entirely different. They were not something Potter did to him. They were something the two of them shared, an intimacy that required trust and a willingness to the let the other person see everything about you, even the ugly, unacceptable parts. This was their secret (until now, anyway), and every time Draco felt a renewed burst of soreness from moving wrong or dropping into a chair, he felt a corresponding flash of warmth in his bones from the knowledge that he possessed this secret. The pain reminded him that Potter wanted him despite his flaws. Whatever else Draco was, Potter thought him worth having and marking and keeping.

Plus, the whole scenario was just plain dirty, which was pretty damn hot.

He could’ve lived with a little less than he’d been getting of late, but the practice of spanking had felt as natural and sinfully wonderful as sinking into hot water after a rough game of Quidditch. It cleansed him.

That did not mean he enjoyed letting everyone look.

“Granger! Get your fucking wand out already.”

She jumped, then hurried to obey.

“Just the tear,” Potter said again, well, growled, more like, and Granger slowed down to move more cautiously.

“I’m going to have to touch you,” she said apologetically. “I can’t be very precise without…um, your cheeks…”

But as she bent slightly to look, one hand reaching out gingerly, Potter lunged forward. His hands formed fists, and his movements were erratic. “No!”

Draco stood upright, exposed groin and trousers at his ankles be damned. He moved between Granger and Potter and gripped Potter’s chin tightly, directing his gaze down into his own eyes. What Draco saw there was alarming—barely contained rage.

“She won’t touch me,” Draco said firmly, barely managing to keep the quiver out of his voice. “I’m yours, remember? She’s only going to fix my injury.”

He felt like he was talking to a small child whose best toy was in danger of being taken away. A child whose tantrum might cause bloodshed.

Granger proved once more that she wasn’t stupid. “I won’t touch him, Harry, I promise.”

“I’m yours,” Draco repeated. It didn’t take any particular effort or courage to lean in and press a small kiss to the corner of Potter’s mouth—he even liked saying that he belonged to the other boy. Words like that made him feel safe. He was still far more attracted to Potter’s strength and kindness than he was repelled by his wrongness. He wondered if that meant that he and Potter were meant to be together or if some deformity in him had been revealed now that he didn’t have standards to uphold. Perhaps when his birthright was taken away, part of his spine and dignity had gone with it.

Potter wavered, frowned, and stepped back jerkily. “I’m sorry, little cat,” he muttered. “I don’t know…I can’t think.”

“We’ll work on you in a second, Harry,” Granger said.

“No doubt,” Weasel said under his breath.

“For now, let’s get Draco in one piece,” Granger continued. “Without touching.”

“I can’t watch,” Potter said, and turned away.

With an embarrassed sigh, Draco returned to his original position at the chaise. Granger gave him a worried look and he gave her back some expression that hopefully looked like _what the hell else can we do?_ because he had absolutely no other answer.

“Now my day is complete,” Draco said, and reached back to help her by holding himself open just a bit.

“I can’t watch this either,” Weasel said. “Hermione, please try not to remember what you’re about to see.”

“My fondest wish,” she muttered, and Draco laughed bitterly.

“Yes, you’re all suffering so very much at the moment. Fuck all of you.”

The awkwardness in the room gave way to three mumbled apologies.

Granger’s wand never touched him; he simply sensed movement right before the warmth of a healing charm begin to sink into his entrance, deepening right along the line of his spine and into his belly so that muscle and tissue resolved and strengthened. Draco couldn’t help the sigh of relief that escaped him. He closed his eyes for a moment, feeling, absurdly, like he might cry.

A hand stroked gently, but without hesitation, across his buttock.

Draco jolted and glanced at Granger over his shoulder in shock.

Her eyes, big and brown, were focused on where she was touching him, and he couldn’t quite understand the expression on her face. Was she soothing him? Hitting on him? Taking a moment to grope him because she thought she could get away with it?

Had Potter touched him here, like this, Draco would’ve gotten hard. Whatever that fact meant, it was simply true. But when Granger touched him, he felt…small. Even a little sick.

Her forehead creased as if she’d heard his thought, and she jerked her head up. She snatched her hand away, looking distinctly horrified and confused. She opened her mouth, and Draco shook his head again, the warning clear.

He thought there was a distinct chance that Potter might really hurt her if she blurted out that she’d touched him.

She mouthed the words _I’m so sorry,_ her face pale and pinched with upset.

Then she was hovering uncomfortably near him as he shifted, with far less discomfort, to pull his trousers up.

“It’s not just affecting Harry,” she said, so quietly he nearly didn’t hear her.

“No,” he agreed, notching his belt. “Thank you for the spell.”

She cleared her throat, blinked a few times to get rid of the shine of burgeoning tears. “You’re welcome.”

“This never happened,” he said more loudly, referring not only to the healing and nudity, but also to the touch.

“Not even if remembering would save my life,” she agreed fervently, nodding uneasily in unspoken acknowledgement of his hidden meaning.

They couldn’t keep it a secret for long—the fact that it wasn’t Potter alone under the influence most likely changed the nature and/or delivery of the curse/potion that was used in the first place. But since she and Draco would be the ones doing the lion’s share of the thinking, keeping back facts wouldn’t hamstring them much for now, and it would keep Granger from getting punched by the unstable boy standing nearby.

With a tight nod, he turned towards Potter, who was staring at the wall with a grim set to his shoulders.

“What do we do with him?” he asked, jerking his chin in that direction.

“Research,” Granger said, stepping carefully away from Draco toward Weasel, who turned and put an arm around her. Clearly, the redhead thought that a glimpse of naked Malfoy warranted comfort. But Granger was still talking as if she hadn’t noticed—or maybe she was pretending not to. Maybe she felt guilty about touching Draco that way with her boyfriend less than ten feet away. “We have an excellent library here. Hopefully, we’ll be able to track down whatever’s causing this before—” She abruptly bit the sentence off, even as her gaze flashed guiltily to Draco.

He gave her a dirty look but said nothing. After all, he knew she was right.

If Granger was suddenly interested in feeling him up right after promising she wouldn’t, whatever was going on was only getting stronger. It might spread to Weasel, too. Not that it would matter. Well before either of those two progressed to becoming threats, Potter would go off the deep end.

And Draco would likely pay the price.

*

Granger spent the next hour taking detailed notes while Potter spilled countless details about his symptoms and feelings. Most of these answers Draco was already very familiar with ( _why yes, we do engage in oral sex and rimming, you nosy bint, thanks for asking_ ). Others were more…instructive.

“No, I’ve never spanked or been spanked by other partners,” Potter said. “I’ve never been excited before by the idea of bruises or rape fantasies.”

“Are you aware of it when you’re behaving out of character?” Granger asked. Draco thought this a stupid question, as she now knew exactly what it felt like to behave out of character under the influence of this…thing, whatever it was. Draco knew he had a supremely wonderful arse, but he didn’t think Granger would ever allow herself to acknowledge this fact, let alone attempt to get tangible proof. No, that creepy little grope had definitely been something not-her.

But he supposed she felt the need to verify that she and Potter were experiencing the same thing. Or maybe she was covering her arse by pretending she didn’t know the answer. Or maybe, she just wanted to know what she was in for as things got worse.

“Sometimes?” Potter said slowly, thinking about it. “Sometimes I feel like I’m submerged in a shallow pond; I can see and hear what’s going on and I’m aware that I’m under water and that I should be at the surface. Other times, it all feels perfectly normal until something jolts me. It’s only then that I realize how blurry and distant everything was.”

Draco frowned. He had experienced nothing like either of those sensations. He had a truly horrible thought: what if he, unlike Potter, wasn’t under the influence of a curse at all? What if he had nothing else to blame this on?

What if he was just a slut, made to fuck?

It wasn’t that he thought he was doing something wrong, exactly. Rather, his concern was that Potter’s reaction would prove to be manufactured while Draco was revealed as a needy, pathetic thing. It didn’t seem so bad when these were games that they played together; they were equals in their depravity, if not in their roles. When Potter woke up and looked at Draco with disgust, however, his use of the words _filthy whore_ would have a different tone. That would create an enormously humiliating power dynamic, particularly once the knowledge spread to the Dipshit Twins. The Gryffindors would need nothing else to have Draco over a barrel.

Then he comforted himself with the fact that they were clearly both influenced. Draco would never have let Potter do any of this to him if it were otherwise.

“It’s almost like something else is driving,” Potter concluded quietly.

“What does that something else want?” Granger asked.

“Draco.”

She cleared her throat. “What does it want to do to Draco? Is it, um, just sex?”

Draco smirked. She was trying so very hard to act like they were discussing dinner or home furnishings, and failing miserably.

“It wants to devour him,” Potter said, and his voice had dropped an octave, his eyes coming to land on Draco hungrily.

“Devour?” Granger squeaked.

“Mine,” Potter added, in that same deep, dark register. It made a shiver crawl up Draco’s back, and he wasn’t sure if he was frightened or aroused.

“Harry’s possessed, isn’t he?” Ron asked, sounding resigned. “Bloody hell.”

Draco was rather inclined to agree with him.

Granger was watching Potter very carefully. “Do you want to hurt him?”

“Sometimes.”

“In a good way or a bad way?” Draco interjected, although he was having more and more trouble differentiating between the two as time went on.

“In a good way,” Potter said, and the grin that unfurled on his face left Draco with absolutely no doubt about what he was feeling. Frightened. Not aroused. Entirely frightened. “All the ways are good ways.”

“What if I say no?” Draco asked, making the question casual, like he cared so little about the answer that he nearly didn’t remember to ask in the first place, even though he was actually quaking while he waited.

“Doesn’t matter,” Potter growled. “Make you want it. Make you need it. Will fuck you. Will be inside. Make you mine. Make you stay.”

Draco couldn’t help the small step backwards that he took; it was entirely compulsive. Potter stood, beginning to stalk slowly forward.

Granger leapt to her feet, and Weasel was suddenly there as well, both of them with their wands out.

“Harry,” Ron said firmly. Then, louder, “Harry!”

Potter jumped, and for a second, Draco thought Potter would hit the redheaded boy; then sanity bled slowly back into Potter’s eyes. He shuddered, dropped his gaze to the carpet, and sat back down.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured.

“What just happened there?” Granger said, still peering at Potter like he were a thing she was about to transfigure. “Was that you?”

“It felt like me. It doesn’t seem wrong to think those things when it happens. The two of you sort of fade, and all that’s left is him.”

Draco’s head began to ache. “I’m in a bit of trouble, aren’t I?”

“I think Malfoy should go,” Weasel said. “Maybe my parents would put him up.”

Before Granger’s little slip, Draco might’ve hesitated. He didn’t like the idea of leaving Potter (with his soothing whispers and reassuring authority and _little cat_ s) and he had enough faith in the wonder kids to think the situation could be resolved before any real harm was done. But if Granger had a time limit on her sanity, or if Weasel got in on the crazy, then the situation was officially out of gray-area. Draco was all for the idea of getting the hell away from these people, even if the idea of going to meet more Weasleys was utterly unappetizing.

He nodded at the suggestion. When Potter was intact again, maybe he would let Draco come back.

“We’re past that,” Potter said flatly, though his expression folded apologetically. “The very thought of him leaving the house makes me…” He held up a hand; it shook badly. “I want violence at the thought of it. The instant that Draco expressed an intention to leave or headed for the door, I would attack. I can feel it.”

“What about you, Draco?” Hermione asked. “Have you ever had this kind of relationship before?”

“This is my only one,” he admitted. “Although it wasn’t really what I was expecting a relationship to be like.”

“I’d imagine not,” she said, gesturing vaguely in the direction of his arse and the bruises.

“I meant that Potter is male,” he said wryly. “But I suppose you’re not wrong.”

“Because Harry’s male,” Granger said, then paused. “Did you anticipate being with a woman?”

“Yes.” Draco tilted his head, wondering where she was going with this. Then a dark, horrible suspicion occurred to him. “In fact,” he added, the suspicion getting worse every second, “I never thought of boys that way before the day in the shower with Potter.”

Granger stared at him, and Draco stared right back. He cleared his throat. “That seems…too much.”

“What?” Weasel asked.

“I think Granger is concerned that the curse—or whatever it is—actually changed my orientation.”

Weasel blinked. “Is that possible?”

“I don’t know,” Granger said.

Potter’s eyes lingered on Draco, heavy and cunning, but he didn’t speak.

“Why me?” Draco asked.

“Quit feeling sorry for yourself,” Weasel advised. “Pouting won’t help.”

“I’m not being self-absorbed,” Draco retorted. “I’m wondering why he’s focused on me and not, say, your freckled arse.”

Weasel flushed. “Fine,” he mumbled.

“I don’t know,” Potter said. He frowned. “I didn’t notice anything like this before I saw you that first day in the shower.”

“So seeing Malfoy naked did it,” Granger mused, perhaps thinking that she’d just seen Draco’s naked behind ten seconds before she felt the first effect. But Draco didn’t think that was it.

“You’ve all seen me with my shirt off before now—weeks ago, even. If nudity was the issue, my bare butt can’t be that much more affecting than my chest.” He didn’t mention that Weasel had seen his arse twice in the last hour or two and felt no apparent need to take a grope of it, a more meaningful omission considering that whatever was going on might not respect the sanctity of gender preference.

Weasel frowned. “It must be something that hit you, Harry. Maybe it was just that Malfoy was the first person you saw since it happened—maybe while we were out getting supplies the day before?”

“I’d seen you and Hermione in the interim,” Potter replied. “If it was based on who I saw first after the curse, it would’ve been one of you.”

“Then it has to be something Malfoy did,” Weasel did—although the words were remarkably non-confrontational. As if he were willing to give Draco the benefit of the doubt, like Draco perhaps had accidentally tripped and dosed Potter’s pumpkin juice with an innocent lust/possession/evil potion in an act that no one could possibly hold against him.

“Or something someone did to him,” Granger said, and as one, they all turned to look appraisingly at Draco.

“How are things at the Manor?” Weasel asked, and now his tone was far more wary.

*

“Snape wouldn’t hurt me,” Draco repeated _again._ Gryffindors listened for shit. “Not like this. Not unless he had to.”

“You seem awfully sure,” Weasel said, then ruined the distrust of the statement by ploughing nearly an entire sandwich into his piehole.

“Have you had no upbringing?” Draco asked, watching with visible scorn (and no small amount of hidden wonderment that such a thing was possible). They had moved into the kitchen for brunch, because Draco and Potter still hadn’t eaten. Weasel, of course, was never one to let an opportunity pass him by. Potter had a sandwich as well, but Draco was eating Weetabix Chocolate Spoonsize—something Granger had apparently picked up at some point for a that-time-of-the-month craving (Draco had made a mental note that girls’ bodies were inherently mysterious, dangerous, and mildly off-putting). The cereal, however, was superb.

He wondered what his father would say if he saw Draco eating mass-produced Muggle food.

That line of thinking cut into his belly, and Draco forced himself to focus. “Potter, I’m telling you, Snape would never curse me with something that would make you hurt me. He wouldn’t do that.”

“I don’t trust Snape,” Potter said flatly.

“Then trust me. He’s not a nice person most of the time, that’s true. But he would not do anything that would result in you raping or attacking me.”

“It could be a way of proving his loyalty to You-Know-Who. If he is a spy, I mean,” Weasel said.

“He cares about me,” Draco said mutinously. “I trust him.”

“We’ve seen what your definition of caring can be,” Granger said gently. “That’s not reassuring.”

“Potter is kind to me,” Draco said, stung on the other boy’s behalf. “That’s why I’m…He used to…I mean, when he’s himself…fuck.”

“Little cat,” Potter said, sounding more than a little miserable.

Draco waved a hand, swallowing past the lump in his throat. “I know, Potter. Don’t worry about it.”

“How can I not?” Potter whispered.

Draco pretended he hadn’t spoken; if he thought too much about it, he might end up getting really upset. “How’s this for logic then? Where’s the benefit for Snape? If he’s a good guy, this fucks up everything, because you would never trust him again. And it’s obvious that if he was a bad guy, he would’ve brought the Dark Lord and a whole pack of Death Eaters here already to capture Potter and kill you two idiots, since he’s known where we are for weeks. If he were going to hurt me to prove his loyalty to the Dark Lord, he would do it where the Dark Lord could see, don’t you think?”

None of them had a response to this, and Draco decided that meant he’d won.

“Okay, then what about Bellatrix Lestrange?” Weasel asked. “Or anyone else in that Manor? Could anyone else want to mess with you this way? Or use you as a tool to mess with someone else?”

Abruptly Draco went very still. He remembered a pair of red eyes tracking him as he crossed the Manor’s drawing room. Even just recalling that moment (and dozens others like it) was enough to make his breath fast.

“What is it, Draco?” Potter demanded, suddenly hawk-like in his focus.

“Maybe it wasn’t meant for you,” Draco said. His words sounded tight, like they’d been squeezed through a narrow tube.

“You mean it was meant to make someone else want you this way?” Granger asked.

“I don’t know,” Draco said. “I can’t…I don’t know. It doesn’t matter anyway, does it, because I’m here.”

“Why did you come here?” Weasel asked. “I mean, I get why you left, but specifically, why now? What finally made you think now was the time to get away?”

Draco licked his lips. “He touched me.”

“Who?” Potter asked, easing to the edge of his chair, watching Draco unblinkingly.

“The Dark Lord. It started when they took over the Manor. At first it was only looking. Then he started looking so hard it was like he was wondering how much space each of my organs took up inside me. Made my skin crawl. It just got worse and worse. Sometimes he would come and stand next to me and whisper things in my ear. Once it was: _young Malfoy, does your skin taste like the milk it resembles?_ And the day before I came here, he touched me. I was saying something about how I would always be loyal to him, the usual crap none of us besides my Aunt really meant, and he…he ran his fingers over my cheek, and his thumb…he pushed it into my mouth, all the way back. Like…like he wanted to know how much room there was. Everyone was watching. My parents watched, but they didn’t say…I didn’t…I didn’t know what else to do, so I let him.”

Draco cleared his throat, trying to ignore the repelled faces around him. “Snape got me excused by saying he’d made a lunch date with me so he could talk to me about schoolwork. He told me to get my books. And when I got to his lab, he already had a bag packed for me, and he told me where to go and what to do. My parents never said a word, but with Snape, I didn’t even have to ask. So no, I don’t think Snape would ever hurt me, and yes, I trust him, because he was the only one who cared when the Dark Lord began to want me.”

“But you didn’t want him back?” Granger asked.

“Are you fucking insane?” Draco asked her, voice low and deadly. “I’ve seen him rape people, Granger. I’ve seen what that reptile cock looks like, and I’ve seen what he does with it. I would fucking die first.”

She leaned away from him slightly; he must’ve scared her.

“I meant that the _curse_ didn’t make you want him the way you want Harry,” she said in a small voice.

Draco shuddered. “No, and thank Merlin for it. I’m sorry, Granger, I thought you meant…” He took a deep breath. “Can we please not talk about this? I feel sick.”

Strong hands closed around his arms, and Draco realized that at some point, Potter had gotten up and come to sit beside him, straddling the bench so that his chest pressed against Draco’s arm.

“Little cat,” he whispered. Potter’s eyes were calm, his energy distinctly his own. His breath was faintly toothpasty, his skin still clean and astringent from his shower, his shoulders broad and strong and he pulled Draco closer with a confident, messy sort of compassion that was so distinctly _Potter_. Everything about him was Savior and Hero and Do What Is Right, all wrapped up in a boy that seemed like he might forget to tie his shoelaces in his hurry to majestically save the world, and his hands were warm and determined, and yes, this was what Draco needed, why he stayed, what he would beg for and why he would take anything Potter delivered. This was the boy Draco had come to lo—care about. Draco sank into the embrace, squeezing his eyes closed and putting his face in the curve of Potter’s throat.

He had not known what the word _safe_ meant until he’d been held by Potter, and he would give the other boy anything—his flesh, his will, his heart—if he could just keep this feeling.

“I never thought I’d say this, but I’m grateful to Snape,” Potter said. Draco could feel the vibration of his speech against his forehead.

Then life reasserted itself and Potter’s hands tightened. He gave a faint groan.

Draco froze. “Potter?”

“I…I need you.”

The hands were already lowering, one of them cupping Draco’s knee and lifting, swinging him on the bench so that he faced Potter, who then pulled Draco forward into his lap so that his thighs clutched Potter’s hips and he was seated on a thick erection. He tried to find the will to push Potter away, but those hands were on his buttocks, rubbing, setting off small licks of pain from the bruises, rocking him against the hard cock in Potter’s jeans, making his own groin tingle.

“Harry,” Granger said, sounding shocked.

Draco’s head fell back slightly at the sensation of the thickness beneath him. The grip on his hips, the breath in his face. Overwhelming him. There was so little of him left to begin with, and every moment, Potter stripped more and more away, and Draco couldn’t even find it in him to protest.

Potter’s lips came down on his, sweet, seductive, insidious. Draco kissed him back, getting lost for a second before he managed to tear away. “Potter, your friends are three feet away,” he managed.

“Don’t care,” Potter said, abandoning Draco’s mouth for the spot beneath his ear. Stubble scraped his skin—Potter hadn’t shaved when he showered earlier—and Draco shivered. His own hands had somehow found their way into thick black hair. Potter rocked them together again, and Draco shuddered.

“What do you want us to do?” Weasel asked. “Oi! Malfoy!”

It took a second before Draco realized they were expecting him to answer.

He forced his heavy eyelids to lift, ignoring the fact that Potter had just torn his shirt open, making buttons ping everywhere. “I’m sorry,” he said, through a dry mouth. “What was the question?”

Granger and Weasel were both bright pink with embarrassment, and the redheaded boy was doing his damndest to look at anything but what was going on in front of him.

“Do you want help?” Weasel asked through gritted teeth.

“That’s very kind,” Draco said, “but you should really leave, because I think we’re about to fuck.”

Granger choked on a strangled laugh, but Weasel was less amused.

“Harry,” Weasel said, “Can you stop for a bloody minute?”

“I can’t,” Potter moaned. “Oh, God, stop me. Someone stop me.”

Weasel acted quickly. “ _Expelliarmus!”_

Potter’s wand flew across the table and into Weasel’s waiting hand. Potter never even looked up—he simply pressed Draco back on the bench and bent over him to trace hot, wet kisses along his ribs. This non-reaction seemed to confuse Weasel, who had apparently expected a fight. Maybe he wasn’t comfortable hexing the savior of the wizarding world while he was kissing his lover’s belly.

“I’ll restrain him,” Granger said, but she didn’t lift her wand.

“I hate to interrupt him,” Draco said, although it came out slightly moan-like because of Potter’s stupid, wonderful tongue. “He’s doing some of his best work.”

For a moment, Weasel and Granger stood there uncertainly, epically uncomfortable. Draco sighed.

“You two should go,”he said quietly. “I’m fine.”

“You're not,” Potter said, biting deeply into Draco’s flesh again even as he spoke, as if he couldn’t stop himself.

“You’re still you,” Draco said, arching under the grasping, hungry mouth now sliding over his hip. He thought perhaps he heard a zip being lowered. “You won’t hurt me.”

“I might,” Potter said roughly. “Part of me wants to.”

Draco clenched his teeth, hard, to capture the words that tried to escape: _part of me wants you to._ But that was wrong, wasn’t it? Here, in front of people he barely considered equals, let alone friends? To let them see him so exposed? Possibly even debased? He felt humiliated. He got harder.

“We’re fine,” Draco gasped, just as Potter tore the placket of his trousers open and planted his face in the pale curls that were revealed.

“Fuck, Harry! Warn a bloke!” Weasel turned his back, and Draco would’ve laughed, but for Potter’s breath teasing the base of his cock. Spry fingers pulled fabric away and Draco’s cock burst gleefully into the open air. Draco did laugh this time. At least part of him wasn’t utterly conflicted and horrified.

“Do you want me to stun him, Malfoy?” Weasel asked tightly, facing the wall.

“Is that what we’re doing now?” Draco asked. “Stunning Harry Potter for giving head? You’ll never recruit people to your side with that kind of behavior.”

He let out an embarrassingly cat-like mewl when Potter’s tongue traced a line up the underside of his cock. And then cringed away from meeting anyone’s eyes. For all that he looked away in shame, he didn’t protest, and that only made the burning humiliation worse.

“I’m leaving,” Weasel said, sounding utterly disgusted with the whole thing. “Hermione, let’s go.”

“Leave the door open. Listen,” Potter said thickly, barely lifting his head. “Please. If he…if he asks for help, don’t hesitate. Do what you have to.”

“Fine.” Weasel seemed more than eager to wash his hands of the whole mess, but Granger didn’t move. She stared down at them from across the table, her face strangely empty.

Draco had a split second to think, quite clearly, that this was the most bizarre, fucked-up sex he’d ever had—and he’d been sleeping with Potter for a while now, so that was saying something.

Then Potter swallowed his cock, and Draco didn’t care. He didn’t care about people watching or curses or potions or dark magic. He didn’t care about his father or his dignity or what anyone would think of him afterwards. He didn’t care what it made him that he liked this.

All he cared about was the hot, wet mouth around him, the hungry sounds Potter was making, the forceful hands tilting his hips, and the way his whole body suddenly lit up. Everything fell away except for Potter, strong and demanding against him, making him feel his own emptiness.

He detested that feeling—the emptiness—because it crowded out all thought and pleasure until all he could do was hate himself as long as it existed. But here was Potter, tasting him, getting ready to fill him, ready to fix it all, and Draco _needed_ him. All the tension and will seeped out of him.

 _Whatever you want,_ he tried to say, but the words got lost. _Just fill me. Make me whole._

“Yes,” Potter growled. “Melt for me. That’s it. I fucking love it when you do that. God, that’s…fuck, little cat. I need you.”

Dimly, he thought he heard someone say something, but he couldn’t make it out.

Then Potter was lifting Draco onto the table, spreading his thighs gently and kicking the bench back so he could stand between them. Draco heard movement in the room, a yell, maybe a struggle, but his head had fallen back while Potter’s lips and tongue traced over his throat. He could feel the heat building in him, could feel the strength in his bones going to liquid.

“I won’t hurt you,” Potter said, his voice hard and determined. It was a promise, even as his fingers became more frantic. “I won’t, Draco. I’m going to hold on this time.”

“It’s fine if you do,” Draco murmured, meaning it. His eyes felt heavy, his body languid, like barely-warmed honey. He lifted his hips involuntarily.

 _He’ll think I’m asking for it_ , Draco thought hazily. _He’ll think all I want is his cock._

Then he thought, _he’d be right._

Maybe it stung, when Potter’s fingers entered him, but when Draco hissed, they withdrew. For a second Draco listened to Potter’s mumblings about what would work best as lube as he fumbled through cabinets (something fell and shattered) and then Potter’s dripping fingers were pushing back inside. Better this time, with the slickness, and the healing spell earlier had fixed him up just fine. It was good, good in a way it hadn’t been in some time, after days and days of fucking had left him raw and swollen, and now he was healthy once more, aching for it, and he bucked up into the touch wildly.

“More,” Draco whispered.

“I’ll give you more,” Harry promised. “I’ll give you everything. Spread your legs further for me.”

He did, opening himself as much as he could, letting Potter shove an arm under his hips to tilt him upward. Fingers moved inside of him, the oil made sloppy wet sounds, squelching in the otherwise quiet room. He could feel his hole stretching, widening, making room. Soon. But Merlin, the emptiness. It left him aching.

The pleasure that rolled through him when those fingers brushed his prostate made him jerk.

“There it is,” Potter bit out. “Oh, you like that, don’t you?”

“Yes, Harry,” Draco managed softly.

“Make that sound for me again. That little purring cry.”

Draco had no idea what he was talking about. He didn’t even remember making it. But when Potter brushed his prostate again, he must’ve done something right, because Potter made a rough noise in response.

“Good boy,” Potter said. “That’s my good boy. And good boys get rewarded. Say what you want, little cat.”

“Please.”

“God, you smell good. How do you always smell so good? Please what?”

“Harry…” He couldn’t think.

“Say it. Now.”

The order struck something deep inside Draco, setting off a corresponding heat. He had to say it, had to please the other boy, and his awareness of his own submission had him rock hard. “Oh, Gods, fuck me. Please, Harry.”

Harry wrenched Draco’s thighs painfully wide, getting him into position. The suddenness of the rough grip made him moan at the beauty of it. To be desired like this, to be needed to the point where it hurt…was there a better feeling? Could there be? Everyone else gave him up so easily, cared so little, and here was Potter, doing everything he could to hang on. How could Draco want anything else?

Harry rammed into him, making him cry out, and then there was just movement, and blinding heat, and the scrape of flesh against his own, his whole body open, and the tight hands at his hips holding him in place, and Potter’s grunting, and the tantalizing, electric rapture that spun outward from inside him with every thrust so that he lost all awareness of where he was. His back arched. His toes were curling. Harry was whispering filth in his ear: _my little whore, my little slut, you’d let me do anything I want to you, do anything I say, spread yourself wide at my word, let me crawl inside you, make you mine—_

“Yes,” Draco cried. “Yes. All of it.”

A mouth was biting into his throat, sending chills down his back. Hands were on his shaft, coaxing the mad, slow-growing burn to spread up from his balls. The cock in his arse was thrusting so hard now that Draco’s bruised buttocks were aching from being slammed against the table over and over.

“Let me come,” Draco begged. “Please, Harry.”

His orgasm was rising, hot and heavy in his groin, getting thicker with each stroke, and Harry’s cock was implacable, toying with him—full, then empty, then full—and all he could do was gasp for air and hang on. They knocked something off the table, Harry was growling something against Draco’s collarbone, where a sharp pain told him he’d been bitten hard enough to break skin, and he caught a few of the words as the heat began to squeeze through him: _fuck, mine, fuck, take, whore, mine._

“Harry, I can’t hold on,” Draco cried.

When Harry replied, his voice was nearly unrecognizable—colder, more demanding. “Come then, Draco.”

And because he had been told to, Draco could do nothing else. He came so hard his head cracked against the table in his spasm, his cry tearing from his throat, the pleasure moving unrelentingly slow and thick from his cock outward, down to his toes and up through his spine, until he could see nothing, hear nothing, only wait out the last few thrusts before the other boy let out a gasping groan and fell still.

After a minute spent with Harry’s head on his chest while they both panted, Draco shifted uncomfortably. He wondered if it would be like earlier, when Harry didn’t come back to himself in between, and instead just kept going. The idea made him edgy. But no, Harry’s hand was stroking his hip, smooth, sweet little caresses that made Draco sigh and curl closer to the other boy.

He made a happy noise: mmm, and Harry laughed hoarsely. Draco rubbed his nose against Harry’s hair, wrapped his legs tighter around the other boy’s hips, and listened to his heart slowing.

“We should get up,” Harry said reluctantly.

Draco abruptly remembered that they had an audience somewhere. Huh. He wouldn’t have thought he could forget about them. He’d even forgotten, for a minute, that there was a reason for them to be there. Now the memory of all of it came back. Every drop of blood that had left his cock immediately rerouted to his face as he blushed dark red. Had they heard Potter say those things, heard Draco beg? As if seeing Potter spread him open to be fucked on the table wasn’t enough. So much for pride.

He lifted his head nervously, and yes, they were alone in the kitchen. He thought about rising, figuring out what the hell had been going on with Granger—something weird, he thought, judging from the crying he could hear from behind a closed door down the hall. Then he shrugged and relaxed. They didn’t have long before the curse—or whatever it was—drove this side of Potter back, forcing them to separate to keep the madness at bay, and Draco intended to make use of it while he could.

“Say you love me,” Draco whispered.

“I love you.”

“Mean it.”

“I do.” Potter paused. “It’s getting harder for me to remember it, sometimes, but I do. Even when that happens.”

“What do you mean? When what happens?”

“I wasn’t me at the end,” he said quietly. “There was another voice in my head…”

Draco realized, uneasily, that he hadn’t noticed.

“What did it say?”

Potter just shook his head, and Draco left it that. If Potter thought it bad enough that he didn’t want to say it, Draco was relatively certain he didn’t want to hear it. He’d thought, at one point, that the most disturbing thing he would ever know in this lifetime would be the touch of the Dark Lord’s thumb tunneling into his mouth while those red eyes stared at him with sadistic, barely-disguised need.

Now that seemed naïve.

He wondered what he would do when Potter looked at him that way. _Please don’t get lost,_ he thought, clinging to the other boy with everything he had left. _How am I supposed to save you when I can’t even save myself?_

After a heartbeat, Draco admitted softly, “I’m scared, Potter.”

“You don’t have to be. I’ll figure it out. I’ll find a way to protect you.”

Draco almost laughed. But sweet kisses fell on his face and forehead, and tender fingers stroked his hair and he kept his eyes closed tight, preferring to forget that soon it might be Potter who touched him and left him terrified.

 


	3. Intercession

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Sorry for the delay in posting. Between the migraine from hell and ridiculous tech problems, I’ve been considerably delayed by RL. I should be back on track (knock on wood).  
> 2\. These last two chapters are the darkest chapters in the series. There is a particularly brutal scene near the end of this one, and it will include possible triggers for some readers. If you get to a point where you can’t keep going, you can pick the story up again at the last asterisk if you like—I separated it on purpose—and that should be enough to get you to the next chapter. Please don’t read further than you feel comfortable—it’s not my wish to upset anyone. Here's where I add something dramatic, along the lines of blah blah...without a great storm, the rainbow at the end is less...oh, hell, nothing's coming to mind. You get the idea, I'm sure.

 

 

Draco didn’t know what kind of wood had been used to build the long table in the dining room of Malfoy Manor. That seemed like an egregious thing now that he couldn’t take his eyes off of it.

The body was gone, of course; the Dark Lord’s familiar had taken care of that well enough, as snakes swallowed their prey whole. That didn’t keep the memory of the crack of bones compressing or the scratch of rough reptile on finished surface from echoing in Draco’s head for days afterwards, although never more strongly than the morning after.

Nagini still lay in the spot where she’d eaten Professor Burbage, the shape of the mostly-undigested teacher deforming the sleek lines of the snake, making visible bulges beneath the scales. Across from Draco, on the far side of the reptile, sat Aunt Bella, whose heavy-lidded eyes were crusty with sleep as she sipped her tea. Beside him was his father, who calmly crunched bacon and read the Prophet. Several other Death Eaters were present: Dolohov, Travers and Macnair at the moment, all three chewing noisily at one end of the table like a pack of rabid dogs—Draco half expected them to suddenly begin fighting over the platter of sausages while snarling and snapping.

Draco’s eggs were cold. That was fine; he had no intention of eating them.

The Dark Lord entered in a sweep of dusky gray robes. Heads bowed in respect and numerous murmurs of ‘good morning, my Lord’ sounded. However, instead of taking his usual place at the head of the table, the Dark Lord circled smoothly around and came to sit directly beside Draco.

A house elf immediately appeared with a plate of favorites: porridge with strawberries and brown sugar, unsweetened black tea, kippers.

Draco glanced helplessly at his aunt as the Dark Lord began to eat. He could see questions flashing through her mind behind her dark eyes; she’d paused with her fork halfway to her mouth at the strange new seating arrangements.

“The nutritional value of your breakfast is of little use to you if it remains hovering before you, Bellatrix,” the Dark Lord said, sounding faintly amused in that awful, cold way that he had. There was no warmth in his good humor. Draco had learned that quickly; his laughter was a shattering, forbidding sound, something to be avoided just as strenuously as his anger.

She resumed eating, eyes dropping to her plate, although she occasionally snatched curious, suspicious peeks over the snake at them.

For a while they ate in silence (well, except for Draco, who couldn’t bear the idea, and just sat with his lips pressed closed), and then the Dark Lord shifted in his seat and began to study Draco’s profile.

“Young Malfoy,” he said quietly, that high voice sending a shiver of revulsion down Draco’s spine. “You’re quite one of us now, don’t you think?”

“I bear your Mark proudly, my Lord.”

“Hmm.” The Dark Lord continued to study him. “A safe answer, as are many of those delivered from that…mouth.”

Draco said nothing. His blood darted like a fleeing rabbit in his veins.

“I thought perhaps you regretted your choice.”

“No, my Lord.”

“No?”

Draco cleared his throat. “I apologize if I’ve given that impression. I remain devoted to you and our cause.”

Simple conversation with the Dark Lord was like walking a tightrope, and Draco’s balance was shoddy. He did not understand how Snape always managed to speak as if he were discussing the weather with a fellow teacher when he addressed the Dark Lord: _Yes, I agree, it’s a pleasant enough night for a spot of murder, my Lord._

All Draco could do was hope he’d given the right answer.

The Dark Lord made a non-committal sound and tilted his head to one side, still staring. He might have been studying a complicated piece of artwork or an elaborate puzzle. The red eyes skittered over Draco’s skin and he thought he might have preferred the touch of insects instead.

“Devotion,” the Dark Lord whispered. “That implies desire, doesn’t it? A desire to please?”

Draco swallowed. “My lord?”

“He’s a beautiful boy, Lucius. You must be proud.”

“We are, my Lord, thank you.”

Draco had nearly forgotten others were sitting nearby, and now he jumped at how close his father’s voice was. How unconcerned.

“And still innocent, I think?” the Dark Lord asked, and something inside of Draco seized tight and painful.

When Draco realized they were waiting for him to answer, he forced himself to nod.

“Excellent,” the Dark Lord murmured. “As a pureblood boy should be. Excellent.” The Dark Lord lifted a single hand and placed it on the table beside Draco’s, so close that barely an inch separated their fingers. Draco stared at that hand—white, smooth, absurdly long-fingered—and felt himself begin to sweat. The dining room had fallen perfectly silent. No one ate. No one spoke. Draco received no rescue, and expected none. He simply stared at that white hand, so innocuous, so ordinary, and knew that he didn’t have long now before it would not bother to leave space between them.

“Yes, my young Malfoy,” the Dark Lord hissed softly, “That is excellent.”

*

“A curse? Or maybe a potion?” Granger said, furiously paging through book after book. As each one failed to give her what she wanted, she tossed it aside, and soon enough she was on her knees by a bookcase in the corner, surrounded by stacks of discarded texts. Draco sat nearby, in his blue chair, thumbing through a text on delayed-action curses at a far more reasonable speed, his eyes not bothering to latch on to any words because he kept stealing concerned glances at her, only in part because she seemed irrationally offended by the answer-less pages in front of her.

Apparently, Weasel had been forced to throw her over his shoulder to get her out of the kitchen when Potter and Draco were fucking.

She’d regained her head, but between her boyfriend’s anger (barely concealing hurt) and her own needless guilt and still-damp eyes, the parlor had a definite air of tension. Supposedly, they were all reading, but really, it was just Granger doing so. Draco, Potter, and Weasel were mostly sitting in sullen silence, cadging glances at each other from time to time.

They’d cleared space on the large mahogany coffee table for the new project of discovering what was wrong with Potter (and now Granger). The note from R.A.B. and the box containing the locket horcrux had been removed to a shelf nearby for the present.

It was obvious now that Draco had been the one cursed, and whatever it was affected people he came into contact with as well—the idea that someone had gotten their hands on first Potter, and then Granger without either of them—or anyone else—noticing was just too far-fetched.

That did not mean that they knew what it was or what to do about it.

“But how was it administered?” Granger muttered to herself. “When would Draco have ingested it?”

“Just ask him when he took it,” Weasel said under his breath.

“I didn’t do this,” Draco snapped.

Granger rolled her eyes. “Of course you didn’t.”

He’d already opened his mouth to refute her comeback, only to stall out as her words sunk in. “You believe me?”

Weasel threw up his arms as if to say _of course my girlfriend is taking the side of the boy she’s been magically induced to want._

“I rather think you’re under the influence of whatever it is as well,” she said to Draco, flinching from Weasel’s frustration. “Unless anyone wants to suggest that after years of hating each other you would simply roll over for Harry without blinking.”

“I thought you said this thing was here between me and Draco the whole time. You said those six years were foreplay,” Potter said suspiciously.

“That was the best explanation when we didn’t have such overwhelming evidence of an outside influence,” Granger said.

“I could still be guilty. Maybe I’m only pretending to be under the influence to cover my involvement,” Draco pointed out, watching her. Whatever she concluded, Weasel might reasonably be expected to parrot. He wanted all of the questions asked and answered now, so he knew where he stood.

“You’re very clever,” she said absently, chucking a book that had apparently done something to irritate her. “Considering that your current social status negates the possibility for legal or social retribution, there are only two reasons you would take an action that would make Harry want to rape you: first, to tie him irrevocably to you in guilt or second, to punish him emotionally for what you perceive as his crimes against you. If it was the first, you wouldn’t have spent all this time reassuring him so effectively, and if it was the second, you would’ve chosen a different potion or curse altogether, something that would’ve brought about more suffering in Harry before it was noticed and cured.”

“What does that even mean?” Weasel bit out.

Granger sighed. “Frankly, if Draco wanted to fuck over Harry, he’d have done a much better job.”

Draco said nothing for a moment, taken aback by her blunt support, then nodded definitively. “Good work, Granger. Glad you got there.”

She smirked a little, prompting Potter to say, “You two have been spending too much time together.”

Weasel added bitterly, “I agree.”

Granger’s expression fell as she returned to looking through the volumes scattered on the floor around her. But she seemed determined to stay on task. “Is it just lust, Harry? Or is it something else too?”

Potter searched for the right word for a long minute before settling on, “Power.”

Weasel and Granger both frowned.

“It feels like I have to own him,” Potter said. “The sex is just the best way to mark him as mine. I need him to belong to me. I need him to belong _only_ to me.” He fell silent for a moment. Then, more quietly, “When we were upstairs before, when I hurt him, the roughness was exciting because it was proof that I can do anything I want, even…even force him to do things he doesn’t want to do, just because I can. Because I have the power.”

They all looked at Draco to see how he was taking this.

“What?” Draco asked. “Do you really think any of that surprises me? Were the bruises on my arse not clear enough for you? I’ve known what Potter wanted from the very beginning.”

“Since the shower?” Potter asked. He tilted his head, considering. “I didn’t show any signs then, did I?”

“Were you even there?” Draco asked. He spoke once more in the high-pitched, mocking voice he used whenever he wanted to quote Harry. “’Come over here and let me fuck you, Malfoy.’ ‘You want it, don’t you, Malfoy? Beg me to fuck you, Malfoy.’” He snorted and returned to his own voice. “You think I didn’t notice the fact that you were putting me in my place, Potter? Trust me, I knew even then what you wanted.”

“Why did you go along with it?” Potter asked.

Draco shrugged.

“No,” Granger said. “Answer the question, Draco.”

“Why?” he asked, snappishly.

“Because whatever it is affects you differently than it’s affecting us—you’re not trying to possess or own Harry.”

Weasel laughed unkindly. “That’s if he’s affected. Maybe he’s just naturally…the way he is.”

“And what way am I?” Draco asked. His hand slid from the arm of the chair to rest casually on his leg, just beside where his wand was tucked under his thigh.

“Harry’s clearly under a spell, but you…you’re not acting all that different. Same git you always are. So maybe you just like having someone do these things to you. He gets rough, rips you up, and you don’t fight back. Maybe you want to be treated like a whore.” Even as Potter rose to his feet, body languid and graceful in fury, he raised a freckled hand. “I’m sorry, all right? I’m being a bloody prat, I know. But Harry…you didn’t see what she was like. She was crying over _Draco Malfoy,_ mate. What the hell am I supposed to do with that?”

The whore comment left Draco burning, true as it might be, because Weasel didn’t have the right to say a damn thing about it. But it was the other insinuation—that Draco was this way innately and not due to a curse or potion—that bothered him most. He’d had the same thought before, and he wasn’t sure why. In theory, he saw nothing wrong with rough sex so long as it was consensual. So why was he so embarrassed and ashamed by the idea that he liked it?

“I said I was sorry,” Granger was saying helplessly.

“Really?” Draco asked her. “Why?”

“Draco,” Potter said.

“She’s under the effects of a spell, Potter. She hasn’t got a fucking thing to apologize for, and neither do you. If Weasel feels threatened by something that isn’t even real, then that’s his problem.”

“I’m sure you’re very worried about her,” Weasel said, but some of the anger had gone.

“I didn’t do anything to Granger,” Draco replied quietly. “But if this is how you handle threats against her—by being something else she has to manage instead of someone she can count on to help, I wouldn’t blame her for looking around.”

“Draco!” Granger squeaked, jumping to her feet. “Don’t!”

“No,” Weasel said. He looked stricken, and he turned to Granger with a heavy brow and apologetic eyes. He swallowed once, hard. “No. He’s…he’s not wrong.”

Granger went to his side, murmured soft things that made the redhead pull her to his side and press a kiss to her forehead. Draco rolled his eyes. And now they would hold hands and ride unicorns into the sunset. How the hell had these three managed to thwart the Dark Lord time and again?

“Why did you go along with it?” Potter asked. “What were you feeling when I approached you in the shower? When I was putting you in your place?”

Draco wanted to smack him in the mouth for bringing that back up. Just a little. “I felt…fuck, Potter, I don’t know. It was a lifetime ago. What the hell does it matter?”

“It might mean any number of things,” Granger said, still in the circle of Weasel’s arms.

Draco exhaled hard, then said, “I felt surprised that I wasn’t angry, all right? It didn’t bother me, and it should have, because it’s you and I hate you, but it felt…fuck, it felt _good_. Happy now, arsehole?”

“You liked it,” Potter said. His voice and eyes had gone blank, making Draco shift uneasily.

“Yes. Fine, I liked it.”

“You wanted me to fuck you. It wasn’t a potion or a curse. You just wanted to spread your legs and take me.”

“You don’t…you don’t know that,” Draco managed. His stomach twisted—equal parts burning humiliation and nervous desire. He set his teeth. Why did he react this way? Why couldn’t he just be normal? He could see Granger and Weasel looking on with faint hints of distaste. Draco felt judged, felt lacking.

“Oh, but I do. You were built to be fucked,” Potter murmured, watching Draco as a lion might watch a gazelle.

“That’s a matter of opinion,” Weasel muttered, but he looked at his friend with no small amount of worry. “Keep it together, mate.”

“Are you feeling all right, Harry?” Granger asked in her best stay-calm-I-have-control voice.

“Yes,” Potter said. He’d risen, that compact body moving with athletic ease, taking one step, then another, closer to Draco, who fought the urge to retreat. “I’m simply pointing out that if there was ever a boy with a body and a temperament meant to take it up the arse or suck a cock, it was Draco Malfoy.”

“He would never say that,” Weasel said to Granger, sounding alarmed.

“He says that to me all the time,” Draco said calmly. More calmly than he felt, anyway. Potter could reel out dirty talk with the best of them; that wasn’t what concerned him. The slow, stalking approach? That was something else. “This is just the first time he’s said it in front of you.”

“He’s been saying things like that to you?” Granger seemed to be filing that news away, possibly in the folder in her brain labeled _things I might do to Draco when I lose my mind._

“Nearly from the beginning,” Draco said. “It’s a sign of progression that he’s saying it in polite company, well, such as it is, but it’s not a new thought. Don’t panic.”

“Describe what you’re feeling right now, please,” Granger ordered Potter.

Potter took another sly step. “He’s too far away. He’s being slightly mouthy, which means he feels comfortable bucking my authority. I like it and dislike it at the same time.”

“Why both?” Granger asked, frowning.

“It gives me an excuse to show him his place. But it also riles me because he should _know_ by now that he belongs in exactly one place at all times. Beneath me, spread open.”

“Cripes, mate,” Weasel grumbled. “Give the guy some breathing space, why don’t you?”

“He’s mine,” Harry growled, apparently threatened by Weasel’s interference, and his manner abruptly changed—hands fisted, shoulders squared, teeth bared. Weasel flinched back, shocked at the turn, no doubt. Granger cringed as well, eyes wide. Instinctively, Draco went to his knees on the floor beside the table, adopting the submissive position that Potter had taught him—hands locked around his wrists behind his back, buttocks resting on his heels, thighs spread a foot apart, head down.

Potter approached, the aggression in him easing. No, _shifting,_ becoming something Draco found hauntingly familiar, something terrifying and debasing at once. The hand that came to rest in his hair made him jump.

For the first time, the very first time, Draco did not want Potter to touch him. Not even a little bit. Any residual arousal had vanished completely. Part of his mind _knew_ this feeling—it just refused to put a word to what it was.

It took everything he had to stay still under those fingers as they stroked him.

If Potter reached for him, demanded sex now, Draco would not want it. And he had no idea what would happen when he refused.

Potter made a soft sound of pleasure.

“Harry,” Granger said thinly, her voice a little high. “We’ve got a lot to do.”

Potter went still. His fingers jerked once, and he took a step back. Then another. He went back to the chair he’d been sitting in before and dropped heavily into it. “Jesus,” he whispered.

“Will that do?” Draco asked after a moment, eyes still trained on the carpet.

“Yes,” Potter replied finally. “I feel a little better. But be…cautious, little cat. Please.”

Draco nodded. “All right.” He slowly returned to the couch.

“I’m sorry,” Weasel said. He sounded like his collar was too tight. “I didn’t mean to set that off.”

“You couldn’t have known,” Potter said. His sounded tired, or maybe a better description was hollow.

“Well, we do now,” Granger said briskly, with an air of getting back on track. She went to kneel beside the coffee table and took up a stack of parchment and a quill. “Rule number one, do not question Harry’s possessiveness of Draco unless it is a safety issue.”

“It’s taking less and less each day to provoke a reaction,” Potter said. He’d put a hand to his forehead, fingernails turning white as he pressed hard.

“That’s the first time you’ve had such a large response to a comment from me or Ron,” she said, writing feverishly.

“He had no right to intercede,” Potter said sharply.

“We’re not,” she replied, her tone careful. “We’re trying to help, Harry.”

He shook his head, trying to clear it. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“We’ll figure it out, Harry. We will.” She looked at Draco. “You’re our best source, actually. It’s almost certainly a Dark potion or curse, and you know the most about those. What potions or curses cause exponential emotional instability in people surrounding the target?”

Draco thought for a minute. “If it’s a potion, it’s definitely from the Erosada family, probably containing either ashwinder eggs or powdered moonstone.” Draco paused. “I’m less inclined toward a love potion because those have rather obvious, instantaneous effects, and the ones that affect people besides the drinker tend to go nutty fast. I’m thinking something that causes a generalized sort of disordered thinking. It could be that the possessiveness is simply caused by something inherent in Potter.”

“You mean like the person’s personality determines the form of the disorder?” Granger asked. She looked at Potter sympathetically. “In which case, Harry’s might have taken the form of possessiveness because he keeps losing people.”

Potter didn’t look up.

“And mine would be…” Granger asked. “I don’t know. I didn’t feel any affects until…”

“Until you saw the bruises that Potter left.” Draco said. “You got a thing for helping people who can’t defend themselves, Granger?”

For some reason, this made both Potter and Weasel snort with amusement while Granger turned pink.

“No,” she said primly.

“Spew,” Weasel coughed into a fist, avoiding her eyes as if he’d said nothing and didn’t understand why she might glare at him.

Draco swallowed as he realized he had a contribution to the conversation that went in the column of squarely humiliating. Well, why not admit to it? He didn’t have any pride left anyway. Reluctantly, he muttered, “That might explain me as well, then.”

“How so?” Weasel asked.

Suddenly bitter, Draco said, “Maybe I really was built to fuck.”

“No,” Granger mused. She shook her head. “You were a virgin before Harry, weren’t you?”

Draco jolted, then glared at the room at large, annoyed at anything and everything with a pulse at that moment. “Thanks for sharing that particular detail, Potter. But yes.”

“Then it’s hard to say you’re obsessed with sex,” she pointed out. “You’ve always been driven more by power, wouldn’t you say?”

“I don’t exactly have much of that in this relationship,” Draco replied scornfully.

“Not with having it,” she said. “You’re attracted _to_ it.”

He hesitated. “If that’s true, I got dosed here, in this house.”

“Why?” Weasel asked.

“Because as powerful as Potter is, he’s nothing compared to Snape or the Dark Lord. If it’s an obsession potion and my obsession is power, I’d have stayed at the manor.”

“Too many ifs,” Granger said. She tapped the feathered end of her quill against her cheek thoughtfully. “We don’t have nearly enough information for these kinds of suppositions. Let’s go back. Gut response, Draco. Curse or potion?”

“Potion.”

“Why?”

Draco screwed his face up at he tried to come up with a reasonable answer. “It would be easier for me to ingest something without knowing it than get hit with a powerful curse without knowing.”

Granger shrugged. Apparently she had nothing better. “Potions that cause obsession… _Whilde Amatas.”_

“No,” Draco replied. “It affects the drinker with severe, instantaneous effects. _Parseus Schiszoas.”_

Granger frowned and grabbed a nearby book. She flipped through pages. “No, that one leads to madness in less than a week.” She ran her finger down a paragraph. “ _Essence of Elaboras.”_

“No frothing of the mouth or shedding of hair.”

“So far,” Weasel added.

“Oi,” Potter said, although he didn’t sound like he cared enough to truly be offended. Draco pursed his lips. _I will not worry about the boy who is scaring the crap out of me. I will not go to him and make myself more vulnerable._

“Stop pouting,” he said finally, and chucked a rolled up ball of parchment in Potter’s direction. It was a risk, but when Potter glanced up, Draco gave him a look that hopefully straddled the line between challenging and reassuring. “You can apologize after we fix it. Until then, you have to hold on. Not to be Miss Rainbow Sunshine, but if the impulse you feel is a dark one, the best thing you can do to keep yourself is stay cheerful.”

“Draco’s right,” Granger said.

“I’ll just get up and do a dance then,” Potter said, but he at least managed to inject a touch of wry humor beneath the mockery.

“Maybe a spot of gobstones,” Weasel proposed. “A little yurk in the eye never fails to put a smile on the face, yeah?”

Draco ignored this asinine recommendation and went to study the bookshelves. After a moment he took down a copy of _Moste Potente Potions._ “Excellent library,” he said absently.

“Thanks,” Potter replied, a little sourly.

Before long, they were all reading through Dark potions books, and occasionally calling out potential answers. _Moste Potente Potions_ was full of potions at once disgusting and captivating. Some created horrific changes in the body—organs liquefying, skin bursting, eyes bleeding—while others affected the mind with bizarre and monstrous alterations, like the one that made the drinker want to seek out and murder infants. It wasn’t long before Draco could see that despite Granger’s comment about Draco being a good resource, his ability to shoot down most of the suggestions the others made without even looking them up clearly made them uneasy.

“ _Vindicta Elaborta_ ,” Granger said.

“Nasty work,” Draco said. “But no. Potter has not become enraptured with the idea of wearing my entrails. Last I checked anyway.”

“Still no,” Potter said, without looking up.

“Lovely.”

They took a break for lunch, then returned to the parlor renewed.

“ _Torpidus Meritus_ ,” Granger called out.

“Potter’s not getting stupider,” Draco said. “Well, not stupider than he—”

“Shut up,” all three Gryffindors chanted half-heartedly in unison.

That evening, after a full day of fruitless searching, Potter started dinner and Granger sent yet another owl to Snape (this one a bit more urgent and descriptive to reflect the new situation) while Draco and Weasel took a break to move Draco’s things out of Potter’s bedroom and into the one he’d used before. It felt odd to realize how at home he’d become in the other boy’s room. His clothes had been neatly hung up in the armoire, and he’d accumulated a stack of books for bedtime reading. His water glass sat half-full and warm on the nightstand. He collected his few things from the bathroom—comb, toothbrush, pomade. He decided to just steal Potter’s toothpaste.

All told, he didn’t really need any help hauling his things over, although he accepted Weasel’s help cleaning the room up and making it livable. The fire hadn’t been used in weeks, and there was a chill in the air. The scent of dust and disuse hung heavy, and Draco found the whole thing utterly depressing. He didn’t want to be near what Potter had become, but he still wanted Harry. His Harry.

The quiet wasn’t exactly companionable as they worked, and finally Draco said, “It’s magic, Weasel. And when it wears off, she won’t want me anymore.”

“You sound sad,” Weasel said.

“I don’t want your girlfriend, idiot.”

“No, I didn’t think…hey, why not? She’s great!”

Draco laughed, and Weasel turned red. “No,” he said, with stiff dignity. “I didn’t think…I meant you sounded sad about the magic wearing off. Won’t that be a relief, though? You and Harry can go back to being…you and Harry.”

Draco looked away. Something about earnest Weasleys irritated the hell out of him. “Have you already forgotten your own theory? I’m not affected? Naturally made to fuck? I like being a whore, remember?” Draco laughed again, softly and with a hefty dose of bitterness.

Weasel had the grace to flinch at hearing his own words flung back at him.

“If all of this is just me…” Draco began quietly, then paused and started over, “Potter’s under a spell. I’m not particularly looking forward to him remembering all the reasons he hates me while I still feel—”

Weasel didn’t say anything for a long time. He just cast _scourgify_ and _tergeo_ and tried not to cough on dust. Eventually, he said, “You’re not so bad. It’s not easy to admit that, but it’s true. I don’t know if I’ll still think that after this is over, but if I do, I’ll try to remind Harry of it.”

Draco blinked. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” He paused, then experimentally added, “Draco.”

A long second passed. Draco had gotten used to hearing his first name from Potter and Granger, but it sounded odd coming from a Weasley. He rolled it over in his mind.

Ron was frowning slightly. “Do you think?”

“No,” Draco decided, “it’s weird.”

“Yeah, really weird.” Weasel cleared his throat. “I thought, because the others were…”

“As attempts go, it wasn’t precipitous,” Draco replied, rather magnanimously, he thought. “It’s just…”

“Weird.”

“Yeah, let’s not do that.”

Weasel resolutely didn’t look at him. “I’m gonna go back downstairs.”

“Yup.”

*

That night, lying between cold sheets in a cold room, Draco stared up at a dark ceiling. Strange, how quickly he’d gotten used to the warmth of Harry’s body, to the sound of his breathing, the strength and comfort of his arms.

When the doorknob turned slightly, only to be caught by the lock, Draco sat up. He retrieved his wand from the night table and waited. The knob rattled again.

Draco had warded the door himself; it wasn’t going to go without the whole house going with it. But Potter didn’t try to force it. Instead, he heard a soft thunk and pictured Potter dropping his forehead against the door.

“Little cat,” Potter said quietly.

 _Go away,_ Draco thought. _Please._

A sigh. “Won’t you let me in, little cat? I can’t sleep without you.”

_Just go._

A soft, bitter laugh. “All I can think about it your scent. It’s on my sheets. My pillows. It’s on my fucking skin. It’s driving me mad. You’re driving me mad. Christ, you should be in that bed with me.”

Draco bit his lip. His fingers clenched around his wand.

“Draco?” Potter’s voice became still fainter. “I think maybe I can just hold you. I think I can do that much without…God, it feels wrong without you.”

 _Please go,_ Draco thought, squeezing his eyes closed. _Before I let you in._

After a moment, he heard Potter whisper something he couldn’t quite make out, but which he thought might have been _I love you,_ and then there was the soft sound of retreating footsteps.

After a very long time, Draco found the will to lie back down.

*

Neither of them mentioned Potter’s midnight visit the next morning. They simply went back to the books and resumed calling out suggestions that Draco (and, occasionally, Granger) knocked down one by one.

“ _Opposo Sentima Obsta Desiro_ ,” Potter said. “Cripes, that’s a mouthful.”

“No,” Draco replied absently.

“It says it removes—”

“No,” Draco said, a bit sharper now. He was tired of everyone arguing with him. “It doesn’t make people act out of character. Move on.”

Weasel had buried his nose in a big book with onion-skin pages called _To Drinke of Death._ “ _Mentus Corpos Eradicus.”_

“No,” Draco said.

“It sounds good,” Weasel said. “Look, it says—”

“No,” Draco interrupted.

The other boy exhaled slowly. “Would you listen? It says it induces a feeling of gradually growing obsession with a single target, focused on an individual desire to teach the target his or her place. That sounds just like it.”

“That’s not it.”

“Why the fuck not?” Weasel asked, throwing his hands up. “You do have a reason, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Draco said tightly. “It’s called paying attention in Potions class and listening to Professor Snape when he speaks, you idiot. There are complications with some very Dark potions based on blood purity. I’m a pureblood.”

“So what!”

“So if Potter had been given that potion, he’d be fucking Granger. It’s used to punish Mudbloods,” Draco retorted.

“Don’t call her that,” Potter and Weasel shouted at the same time.

Draco felt an unaccustomed twinge of guilt, which he did not particularly care for. “I didn’t mean…I wasn’t referring to _her_. I meant muggle-borns…it just came out wrong. Sorry, Granger. I wasn’t actually trying to insult you.”

“It’s all right,” she said, rather taken aback by the apology. She even gave him a small smile.

“It’s not all right,” Potter snapped. “Fuck, Draco, why the hell is it so hard for you to just be a decent human being?”

A muscle worked in Draco’s jaw. “It’s habit.”

“That doesn’t make it okay!”

“I’m trying,” Draco said through clenched teeth.

“You won’t do it again. Do you understand? You’ll stop _thinking_ it.” The growl was coming back. And all of a sudden, Draco realized he did not care. He was tired of this pandering, of having to cower and let Potter get away with being an arse. He wasn’t a child, and he wasn’t a pet. He had said something cruel—and for the first time, it had bothered him that he had said it to Granger, and the fact that she’d understood had even made him feel a little bit affectionate towards her—and stupid, a thoughtlessly cruel thing, and that was wrong, but Potter was way out of line trying to control Draco’s very thoughts, bigoted though they might be. And Draco’s temper—never as easily caged when Potter was the other party—was officially lost.

“It isn’t easy turning your back on everything you’ve been taught,” Draco said viciously. He lunged to his feet, nearly going for his wand. It felt good to have a go at Potter again. It felt as natural as breathing.

“Harry,” Granger interrupted soothingly, despite the fact that her brow was creased with burgeoning panic. “He apologized. That’s more than Draco ever would have done before. He is trying.”

“So I’m supposed to be proud of him for managing the barest level of effort towards basic respect for others?”

“I’m the one without basic respect?” Draco asked, stunned by the sheer level of _delusion_ in the other boy. “That’s a rich one, you ill-bred mongrel.”

“Oh, Draco,” Granger said. She was actually wringing her hands. “Don’t—”

“Keep it up,” Potter said softly, the threat implicit in his voice. “Push a little farther.”

“Hey, guys, let’s take it easy,” Weasel said.

“Fuck you,” Draco and Potter snapped in unison.

“That’s nice,” Weasel said, offended. They both ignored him.

“I’m going to like this,” Potter said, getting up. He was doing that stalking thing again. “This will be beautiful. Because you’ll start out wanting to fight, you will, but in just a few minutes, you’ll be begging for it. I know you, little cat. You’re a whore through and through. And there’s nothing you like more than my cock buried inside you. And you’ll get it. Yes, you will.”

“Don’t,” Draco warned.

“I will break you if I have to,” Potter said, and Draco felt the first stirrings of fear cut through his fury. But he didn’t retreat.

This had been inevitable, he supposed. At some point, there had to be a line, and for Draco it was here. Being submissive in the bedroom was one thing. But submissive didn’t mean doormat, and there was a difference between being someone’s whore and being their bitch. Draco didn’t much mind being one, but he’d be damned before he’d be the other.

And Potter had overstepped.

“You’re not putting your hands on me, you bastard.” Draco kept his gaze steady. He would not be intimidated. “I’m saying no. Do you get that?”

“I don’t care,” Potter said, a small smile playing on his lips. “Do you get _that_?”

Draco took an instant to think. In about two seconds, this was going to get violent. Potter would not back down, and even if Draco fell to his knees right now—which he would _not_ —Potter had passed the point of reason a few insults ago. He would be unmanageable and possibly vicious regardless.

The thought of a fight didn’t scare Draco. They’d dueled before, and they were fairly evenly matched, but Draco had dirtier tricks up his sleeve.

Also, he had Granger, who stood up for those who needed help, and Weasel—currently staring open-mouthed with horror at the unfolding mess—sworn to curse his best friend to save Draco.

What scared him was the idea that Potter might fight back. Not against him, but against either of the dipshit twins.

That was when Draco realized he loved the other boy, that he was fucked, because what undermined his temper most was the thought of Potter’s face when he came back to himself and faced the knowledge that he’d harmed one of his best friends.

And for the first time since he’d known Harry Potter, Draco took a deep breath and walked away from a fight.

At least, he tried to.

“You’re not running away,” Potter said, voice thickening. “If you think you can stand up to me, let’s see it.”

“I’m not running away. I’m leaving. Before someone gets hurt.”

“It will be you,” Potter promised, a sadistic smile tilting his lips. The thread of fear cut through Draco again.

“Mate,” Weasel said. He pulled his wand.

“Harry,” Granger said. Her panic was gone, fallen behind determination.

“Potter, you don’t want to do this,” Draco said. He began to ease his hand toward the inner placket of his robes where his wand was held.

The laugh that rolled out of Potter then made the hair on the back of Draco’s neck stand up. In a sudden rush, Potter pulled his wand. A shout, a flash of light, a loud crack, a sense of movement, and then, just as his wand was clearing fabric and lifting to aim, Draco felt something knock into him, something heavy and hard that forced him onto his back. His head cracked the floor and for a second his vision tunneled.

When everything cleared, his wand was gone, and he felt warm lips tracing up his throat, hands burrowing under his clothes. He lifted his hands clumsily, still dazed, and tried to shove at the other boy.

“The sooner you stop fighting,” Potter was whispering, “the less it will hurt.”

“Get off of me,” Draco said. Was that his voice? Weak and trembling? Merlin, his head hurt. He shoved at the other boy again anyway.

Potter hit him. Hard.

For a moment, Draco lay in shock, less because of the red agony exploding behind his eye than because it was _Harry,_ and as much as Harry might be psychotic right now, it had honestly never occurred to Draco that Harry would hit him.

That, more than anything else, convinced him that his Harry was gone. Moreover, his Harry would not be okay with this. _His_ Harry would be perfectly all right with Draco fighting as dirty and as viciously as he could to protect himself.

Merlin, though, something in Draco ached at the thought of hurting his Harry.

While these thoughts and the disorientation rattled through his skull, Potter took advantage, ripping Draco’s trousers open and throwing him onto his stomach. Draco became alert enough then to throw back an elbow; it glanced off of Potter’s upper arm. He twisted, tried to roll, but Potter was fucking heavy, his shoulders too broad, and he was straddling Draco now, keeping all of the leverage. He wrenched Draco’s arms back, locking them in one hand.

“No,” Draco choked out. “Harry, don’t.”

He compounded the words with a head butt backwards. He hit something, and Potter cursed, but the grip didn’t loosen.

Draco’s wand had rolled under the chaise—he could see it from here, probably even within arm’s reach. He bucked, wriggling enough that his shoulders protested with sharp, electrical bursts of pain. He ignored it best as he could. Where the hell were Granger and Weasel?

Potter was yanking at his trousers. Fabric tore, and then he felt cool air on the skin of his backside. For a heartbeat, everything in him became very still. _This is happening,_ his brain said, with remarkable calm all things considered. _This is real, and he’s going to do this, and it’s going to be bad, it’s going to hurt, really hurt, and it’s going to be a part of you from now on._

He let out a cry, protest and fear and anguish in one, and bucked, kicked, wrenched until he was out of breath and heaving. Tears had started at some point, and all he could feel was a rough finger tracing the line of his buttocks while the fear choked him, stole his thinking, and left him a shuddering, desperate, creature.

The finger ran over his skin again, and Draco moaned. _Please don’t_. He closed his eyes, shook his head, making the carpet rub red soreness into his cheek.

The body above his shifted, and a mouth came down, breathing hot and foul into his ear. “I can only imagine that I’ve wanted this for a long time, young Malfoy.”

_Oh, fuck._

Only one person called him that. Something greasy and cold slithered through him, something that left him frozen and staring.

How? How was it possible? It wasn’t possible, couldn’t be.

The hand began to spread his buttocks, and Draco wasn’t picturing Potter’s strong, square hands anymore, but white, slender ones, elegant and curved like spider legs, knowing soon they would be stretching him open, and he screamed his horror into the carpet.

The laughter rolled again, high and cold and faintly hissing, and all Draco could think was that the Dark Lord was crawling out of his boyfriend’s body and into his own.

A shrieking, spine-crawling sound pierced the air, like metal tearing, and Draco felt the body—the Dark Lord, wait, no, no, don’t think it—turn to look in the direction the sound had come from. The weight moved back. The hands loosened. And a burst of panic and terror gave Draco a last rush of strength. He heard the high, cold voice cast something, felt the magic in the air. Weasel or Granger, Draco thought desperately, tearing one arm loose. He didn’t try to get away; he went for his wand. Weasel or Granger couldn’t fight the Dark Lord. They’d be crushed; he had seconds only, seconds before one or both of them was dead. His fingers brushed hawthorn and his heart nearly broke with desperate hope. Please. Please.

Something crashed. The body above his shifted again, a foot moving, and Draco got his wand free.

He cast over his shoulder, the first thing he could think of, “ _Expelliarmus!”_ and the body was abruptly gone.

Draco rolled over, got to his knees, and nearly fell. His vision went black at the edges. Arms wind-milling for balance, Draco saw a rush of movement, heard the high, clear voice once more, although the meaning of the words was lost to the throbbing in his head. He ducked without thinking, hearing something break behind him, and cried, “ _Estrapo_!”

A thick cloud of black ink enveloped the figure across the parlor, and Draco managed to haul his trousers together and get to his feet, even if the room began to dance around him. He thought he saw a body lying akimbo on the ground from the corner of his eye, but didn’t dare look more closely, because he could barely stay standing, and turning his head might be all that was necessary to take him down.

With a soft incantation, the cloud was dispersed, and Draco stared across the chaise, horrified, into green eyes tinged red. In rapid succession, he sent _Incarcerus, Stupefy,_ and _Morta Maleficus._ Only the last got through, and for a moment the other boy—the Dark Lord?—crumpled to one knee. Draco stumbled at the loss of energy the curse had required, and shook his head. Fucked. He was fucked. The curse should’ve dropped the other wizard into a coma filled with nightmares, but he must’ve gotten a non-verbal shield charm up in time, because he was already upright, already casting. And weak as he was, Draco’s hurried _Protego_ parted like paper beneath the Dark Lord’s strength, and just like that, his wand was gone.

That was it, he thought. It was done. He had nothing else to fight with.

A heartbeat later, he was forced back onto his belly. Hands—white, long-fingered hands, he was sure, reality be damned—ran over his body: back, arse, entrance, touching and caressing, even as he choked on tears and terror.

Then came the sweetest sound he’d ever heard.

A new voice, rich and deep and silky. Unafraid. A voice just as trusted and comforting as the high, cold voice was feared and loathed.

The voice spoke, once, twice, and there was a riot of noise and screaming that Draco couldn’t quite comprehend. He blacked out.

*

Then he was aware again, jerking up onto his elbows in panic, and looking past curtains of black, lank hair into a sallow face with a hooked nose. Dark, intent eyes were settled on his, and he let himself lay back on the floor in relief, because everything would be okay now.

“Mr. Malfoy, I find myself concerned about your choice of partners,” Snape intoned dryly, and Draco began to laugh and he kept laughing until he was crying. Long, skinny arms came around him. He buried his face against black robes and listened as the older man told him things. He ignored the words entirely, even as he knew that having to repeat himself would annoy the hell out of Snape later, but for now, he just wanted that voice, awkward in its gentleness, but utterly representative of the man who possessed it: strong, and honest, and utterly dedicated to those lucky few who had earned his loyalty.

“I missed you,” Draco managed between sobs.

“Idiot boy,” Snape said, sounding tired and worried and very nearly fond before shaking his head and holding Draco closer.

And Draco sank against that lean body and tried not to imagine what might have happened to his Harry, the one that stroked him and held him and loved him. The boy that Draco loved back. The boy that Draco desperately hoped would not remind him, forever, of a red-eyed demon with white hands prying inside of him. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lucky thing we’ve got a potions master handy, eh? From now on, any non-con in the series will be references to these events only.


	4. For His Own Good

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo, there be serious angst up ahead, folks, but also answers. This wraps up this section, but this isn't the last segment in the series, although we're getting really close to the end (and better times!)

 

Hogwarts, May 1998

 

When the door to the Room of Requirement swings open, Draco enters in a huff, confused as to why Finnegan won’t let go of his arm and why they have to _go right now._ At least Draco thinks that’s what the prat has been saying—he’s bloody hard to understand when he gets excited.

Then he’s inside, and the crowd is parting, people looking at him with doubt and curiosity, perhaps even a little trepidation.

“Now, he’s really very different these days, you guys,” Longbottom is saying to someone in a placating tone. The round-faced boy is looking slightly behind him to whomever he’s brought with him from Aberforth’s. “Draco’s an effective member of the team, try to remember—”

And just as Draco pushes past the last of the watching students, he sees him. For a second, he can only try to keep his feet as his head gets light, and then he’s moving, his body darting forward without his permission; he gets within a step of the other boy before his brain catches up and he slams to a stop.

It takes a few seconds for his other senses to catch up: the scent of sweat and damp and dirt, but under that something more pleasant and familiar; he can see the hard, strong torso with firm arms; shoulders broader than his own; a body he knows, but slightly taller than he’s used to—apparently _someone_ is still growing, Draco thinks crossly, although he isn’t sure why he’s wasting precious time thinking about _that_ —and finally, the lean face and green eyes, intent and tired and full of that righteous, perfect decency that is so very, very _Potter._

Then Potter lifts one hand—bigger than Draco remembers, everything about him bigger and more impressive than Draco remembers—to capture his face. It’s not a romantic gesture; he’s holding Draco still for his perusal. His eyes are critical, somehow sad, and for a moment the hand tightens almost painfully. He thinks, very briefly, that Potter might pull him close, perhaps even kiss him. The thumb traces Draco’s lower lip once, and then Potter takes a deep breath and sets Draco firmly away from him. His expression becomes impassive.

“Wait,” Draco whispers.

“Not now,” Potter replies, his tone brooking no argumentation. He pulls his gaze away—Draco tries desperately to believe that there is reluctance there, at least, but he can’t quite buy it—and looks out over the crowd. After a moment, while he stands under the lash of rejection, Draco realizes people are staring at them, and he forces himself to put on a mien of arrogance, as if he doesn’t care. He takes a few steps back, finally acknowledging Potter’s friends. Granger comes to him and actually gives him a hug; Weasel manages a worn-out smile and a nod. Draco turns back to face the rest of the group.

Draco wonders if they noticed that Potter pushed him away.

He isn’t surprised—he can’t be. He’s had months to come to terms with it now, even if he’s starting to think he’ll never fully recover from it. Something that had carved him more deeply than Sectumsempra ever could.

When Potter had awoken from the spell all those months ago, Draco had seen it in his eyes.

The same thing he sees now, actually.

Potter doesn’t want him anymore.

*

Grimmauld Place, November 1997

 

Draco couldn’t quite wrap his brain around what happened.

He felt better in his own bedroom. He’d showered and scrubbed until his skin tingled, over-sensitive and flushed a ripe pink. He had warded the door with his strongest spells, and there was the comfort of knowing that Snape was downstairs, handling things, and he’d given Draco his word that he wouldn’t leave until they’d talked.

But as he sat numbly on his bed all he could think is _that didn’t happen, did it?_

Now that he’d had some time and some distance and some repaired trousers, he could realize the absurdity of it all. The Dark Lord had possessed Harry Potter somehow, and rather than going for world domination, as might have been expected, he’d tried to rape Draco. Didn’t succeed, thank Merlin, although that was less comforting than Draco would’ve expected—it didn’t do a damn thing to assuage his lingering fear, helplessness or humiliation. Draco kept twitching, feeling phantom touches along his back and buttocks, like insects crawling along his skin.

Part of him knew it hadn’t been his Harry. Part of him really did _know_ that.

But the rest of him wasn’t sure.

So he sat on his bed, wand clutched tight, listening to the house settling, and told himself over and over: _it wasn’t him, it wasn’t him, it wasn’t him._

*

When Harry opened his eyes, he wasn’t sure what to make of the face in front of him. Not that he didn’t recognize Snape ( _the murdering bastard,_ his mind supplied helpfully), but he was confused as to when and why the man had arrived. And how. And the expression Snape wore was one that Harry had never seen before, at least not when directed at him. It looked like…concern.

It took some time for it to occur to him why this was; he had a vague memory of something that was his being withheld from him and then something cold had blown through his mind and he had felt very small, unable to speak, locked in darkness…

The voice had taken over, he supposed, and looked around, trying to get a sense of what might’ve happened afterwards. He was in the study, a room he and Ron had searched for any additional R.A.B. clues weeks ago but had since abandoned. His friends and Draco were not present; that made him unhappy, but it might be for the best if the voice still had a foothold.

Everything felt clearer, though. He squinted, examining his thoughts, listening closely for any sign of a presence that wasn’t his, but he felt more like himself than he had in some time.

Including the pain in his scar, actually. Of all the things about being normal that could’ve returned, Harry could’ve done without that.

He tried to put a hand to his aching forehead, but his arms didn’t move. He glanced down, curious, and realized he was tied quite firmly to a chair. One of the straight-backed chairs from the formal dining room, in fact.

“Are you going to kill me?” Harry asked Snape, and got to watch the concern in those black eyes dissolve into the familiar mixture of annoyance, disdain, and scorn that the professor usually aimed his way.

“And the stupidity of that answer proves that you’re Potter again,” Snape droned, backing away. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t leap for joy.”

“Where’s Draco?” Harry asked.

“He’s upstairs,” Snape said, and some of the concern was back in his thin, mobile face. “What do you remember, Mr. Potter?”

“Is he all right? Is he hurt?”

“He’s not injured,” Snape said. “Now kindly answer my question.”

Harry struggled to think past the pain rioting in his skull. “We were reading. About potions that might be making me act violently. Draco…called Hermione a mudblood. I got angry…”

Snape just watched him, and something cold and horrible twisted in Harry’s gut. “I didn’t hurt him, did I?”

“You attempted to rape him,” Snape said flatly. “Your friends tried to intervene. When I arrived, they were unconscious and you were ripping Mr. Malfoy’s clothes off. Fortunately, while we may debate how much of the Dark Lord’s personality you may be channeling, it is clear that you have inherited little in the way of his power. I subdued you and here we are.”

“I know what this will sound like, but it wasn’t me. I swear.”

Snape’s eyes rested, for a brief second, on Harry’s scar. “Indeed,” he murmured, and then turned away.

“Is he all right?”

“Would you be?” Snape asked.

“No,” Harry admitted. He pressed his eyes shut once more, wishing he could return to dark unconsciousness. “I didn’t, though? I didn’t…rape him?”

“No.” Snape seemed almost as relieved as Harry felt. “No, I arrived in time.”

“Thank you,” Harry said, fervently and honestly grateful to the man, and it must’ve showed, because Snape didn’t seem to know how to respond.

Harry decided not to give him a chance to formulate an insult, and moved on. “How is he, though? God, he must be so upset.”

“Can you not guess?” Snape asked.

Harry imagined the scene all too easily—they’d come too close in the past, while Harry had still had some measure of awareness, for the event to be totally beyond his comprehension. He could hear the begging Draco might’ve…he could feel those trembling muscles struggling against him, perhaps even see the terror in the smoke-grey eyes.

“I promised I would protect him,” Harry mumbled.

“You still can.” Snape rose and came to stand directly before Harry. He bent at the waist and looked him dead in the eye.

Harry knew immediately what he was up to, and threw his mind open. Not that any resistance he could put up would have stopped Snape for more than a few seconds, but he wanted it clear that he would do whatever was necessary to get the corruption out of his system.

“ _Legilimens.”_

A rush of images passed before him, a series of memories, some painfully intimate ( _Draco sighing sweetly against him, eyes closed and features slumberous, curled close and whispering his name over and over: Harry, Harry, Harry)_ but he did not struggle even slightly. In fact, he did the opposite. He brought his mind specifically to the crucial moments. He could feel Snape’s presence—pleasantly stern and sturdy compared to the rocking, unmoored ship that had skated through his brain earlier—but the professor was soon caught up and withdrawing.

“You seem to be comparatively stable for the moment,” Snape decided, standing upright.

“Will you untie me then?”

“No.” Snape seemed to take no pleasure from the refusal. “We’ve a great deal to discuss, Mr. Potter, and much of it is of far more import than your dramatic teenaged affair with Mr. Malfoy.”

“Don’t be shirty,” Harry said mildly.

“We don’t have an enormous amount of time,” Snape said, ignoring his comment. “You are not tied because I enjoy watching you sit there in discomfort. You must hear me out. Start to finish, before reacting. You’re a hot-tempered fool and this will be exceedingly hard to hear, but it is nonetheless crucial that you get all of the necessary information, evil though you may think me. So you must listen to it all. Then if you want to scream at me, I’ll let you say whatever you like.”

Harry was a little taken aback by several things: Snape’s manner was viciously serious, and his heaviness was making Harry uneasy; his words—what necessary information?—were disturbing as well; and yet, what most worried him was Snape’s seeming willingness to let Harry abuse him if Harry wanted to.

“I’ll listen,” Harry said.

“In places, it will be very difficult for you not to attack me or leave,” Snape warned. “Hence the ropes.”

Harry nodded once. “I’ll listen. That’s all I can promise. But even with the fact that you gave us the horcrux, I don’t trust you.”

“I don’t know that there’s much I can do about that.”

“There might be,” Harry said slowly. “Answer two questions. I want to know why you murdered Dumbledore. And I want to know why he trusted you even after you gave the Dark Lord the prophecy that got my parents killed.”

Snape gave him a dirty look, but hesitated, apparently torn over whether or not to give Harry the information he wanted. He stood skinny and tall, fingers knotting and unknotting in anger. Finally, he said, “Oh, fuck it.”

Despite the seriousness of the situation and the topic at hand, Harry very nearly laughed. He should’ve known that Snape, for all he was a teacher, would be a natural with foul language.

*

In retrospect, Harry was surprised Hermione and Ron hadn’t come to investigate; there’d been a fair amount of shouting during Snape’s tale, and at one point, Snape had even seemed on the verge of throwing things.

But at the end of a lot of talking, Harry was no longer so predisposed to bludgeoning the man, and this probably had something to do with the way Snape’s ugly face had grown uncharacteristically softer when he talked about Lily Potter. Harry had trouble believing that the great spy and former Death Eater Severus Snape could be a romantic, but there was no falsity to the sadness in those black eyes.

And Harry got the distinct impression that Snape had gotten something out of the telling as well; while he’d seemed uncomfortable talking about his love for Harry’s mother, ever since he’d explained the circumstances of Dumbledore’s death, he seemed slightly lighter. Perhaps, Harry thought, he’d needed to be able to convince someone that he hadn’t murdered a friend after all to be able to truly believe it himself.

But as much as Harry had needed those answers, they were less pressing than the ones they now moved onto.

“How did you know about the horcruxes?”

“I’m not stupid,” Snape said coldly. “And once Dumbledore told me parts of the situation, it wasn’t hard to figure out the rest.”

“You went behind his back and researched it, didn’t you?” Harry asked, a little amused. “Did you sneak into the restricted section at night? Nah, that’s not you. You would never be so arrogant as to delve into a mystery that isn’t meant for you. That’s something that upstart Gryffindors do.”

“The potion, then,” Snape said, utterly ignoring him and making Harry snicker. “ _Opposo Sentima Obsta Desiro_. Simply put, it removes impediments to good feeling towards the drinker. Obviously it is far more complicated than that, and I’ll go into deeper depth only once Mr. Malfoy is present, as I’ve no interest in repeating myself. What you need to know for the purposes of this discussion is that the potion Mr. Malfoy was given should not have affected all of you the way it did.”

“Was it defective?”

“No. I don’t brew defective potions—”

Harry opened his mouth, shocked by the implication, but Snape was already holding up his hand and grimacing.

“I am not the one who gave the potion to Mr. Malfoy, but it did come from my personal stock. That’s how I know that it was not a flaw in the potion that resulted in this…mess.” Snape’s upper lip curled in distaste, as if the thought of Harry and Draco having sex made him want to shudder like a Victorian lady.

“What was it then?”

“An interaction. The potion plus horcrux equals slowly growing psychosis.”

Harry closed his eyes for a moment in resignation. Why did it always come back to that fucker? “It’s Voldemort, isn’t it? What’s possessing me is Voldemort.”

“I’m sure you meant to say The Dark Lord,” Snape snapped. “And I’m also sure you remember a particular incident with a diary. A young Tom Riddle clawed his way into existence via a horcrux and the knowledge of a second-year girl, did he not? So the answer to your question is both yes and no. Another fragment of Tom Riddle used the horcrux to begin to become manifest, but rather than draining you dry and taking on flesh, as he attempted with the Weasley girl, he was caught by your interest in Mr. Malfoy, courtesy of the potion. And, perhaps, some of his own inherent interest—Mr. Malfoy is just his type. He prefers them vulnerable, young, and submissive. The real Dark Lord, however, remains utterly unaware of the location of the locket or the events in this house for now, and that’s one of the few points in our favor here.”

“So we destroy the horcrux.”

Snape twisted in his chair, reaching behind himself to the desk. He turned back with something in his hand, and he let the object fly toward Harry, where it landed on the carpet beside his trainer. Harry stared for several seconds before his brain made sense of what it was: a blackened, mangled locket.

“How?” he asked, wide eyes lifting to Snape’s.

Snape’s head tilted. “Have I managed to impress you, Mr. Potter?”

“Yeah, actually, a bit.”

“Then my day is complete,” Snape said dryly. “The sword of Gryffindor. I brought it with me and will leave it here with you. The basilisk venom it was soaked in is one of very few methods for destroying horcruxes.”

“So if all of this is because of how the horcrux was interacting with the potion, then I’m not a threat anymore, then,” Harry murmured to himself, and something uncoiled in his chest. Draco. He wouldn’t be a risk to Draco now…they could be together, and everything would be—

“No,” Snape said firmly. “That’s not true. Normally the potion would wear off with time, but the magical signature became linked with the signature of a horcrux. As long as a horcrux is present, the potion—and the interaction—will remain.”

“But the horcrux is destroyed,” Harry said, confused.

“How many horcruxes were there originally?” Snape asked, but his manner was such that he clearly already knew the answer.

Harry frowned. “Six.”

“Are you sure?”

“Unless you’re saying I’ve missed one.”

“You have.” Snape shifted, and his features suddenly softened. His eyes lingered on Harry’s for a long moment, long enough that Harry felt a bit awkward, and then the black gaze lifted a tiny bit, and came to rest on Harry’s scar. “A vital one, in fact.”

When Snape’s meaning came to him, Harry laughed, because it was the most ridiculous thing ever. Then he thought about it, and felt the rightness of it, the truth of it, deep in his bones. Connections and conversations rewound through his head—being the snake, the numerous dreams, the ability to eavesdrop on Voldemort’s actions and moods. He laughed some more. It was just so…fucked up. After all of this, the enormous mess that was his existence, life had come up with yet another way to screw him over. It made him think of what Hermione had said about Draco’s manner of taking revenge: _if Draco wanted to fuck over Harry, he’d have done a better job._ Yes, Draco had always had a gift for making Harry’s life miserable, but even the Slytherin boy could take lessons from fate.

He kept laughing for another minute, and then the hysteria in his own voice began to creep him out and he forced himself silent.

But it was the thought of the snake—as well as his awareness that the horcrux within the snake could only be destroyed in one way—that brought the rest of it home.

He stared at the man who remained perfectly still, the very picture of ease, resting in the wingback chair, and had to look away from the knowledge waiting in those black eyes.

The silent minutes stretched for ages.

He’d nearly forgotten that Snape was there when he came back to himself; when he raised his head, the other man was watching him very closely, as if perhaps the conclusions Harry had come to would be written in his very skin.

“I have to die,” Harry said finally.

A muscle worked in Snape’s jaw—just once. “Yes. And the Dark Lord must do it.”

Again, they sat in silence for a long time.

*

Hermione kept her eyes closed, relishing the feel of Ron’s thick fingers moving through her hair. She’d been more comfortable in her life, but lying here on this cramped chaise with her head in his lap was not something she had any interest in abandoning.

“The shouting seems well done,” she said.

“Probably because one of them is dead.”

“What do you think they’re talking about?”

“Dunno,” Ron said thoughtfully. “Horcrux stuff, maybe?”

“I never thought I’d say this, but I’m glad Snape is here,” Hermione said.

Ron simply grunted.

“I am. He can help. He knows things we don’t. Answers always make things better.”

The parlor still smelled like ash and smoke from the destruction of the locket.

*

“Dumbledore knew?” Harry didn’t bother to feel betrayed—he had enough to deal with before something as minor as getting stabbed in the back by his trusted mentor could bear weight.

“Yes. He withheld the information because he knew that it would be extremely difficult for you to undertake your quest if you knew what would have to happen at the end. I was supposed to reveal this much later, but you and Mr. Malfoy have put me in a difficult position.”

“Because the horcrux in me will still influence my behavior towards him if he stays,” Harry said, and his heart cracked open for an entirely new reason now. Who knew how long Harry would have? And to spend this last bit of time without the other boy made him squeeze his eyes closed.

“He won’t want to go,” Harry added. “The potion will make him want to stay.”

“The potion has not affected Mr. Malfoy.”

“Of course it has; he’s _with_ me.”

“The potion in question does not affect the actual drinker in any way. Only those around him.”

Harry shook his head. “It must’ve. He’s different with me, Snape. Well, he’s still kind of a prat, and he’s got a smart mouth, but…he…he lets me be kind to him. He wants me and needs me, he loves having me take care of him.”

“Then that’s who he is,” Snape said, looking faintly uncomfortable, as if discussing the love lives of his students was about as pleasant as having a wound cleaned. “Mr. Malfoy’s home was a very…cold one. His mother, I believe, cares for him, if somewhat haphazardly and with little forethought—just look at how all of this turned out—”

It took a moment for Harry to realize that Snape’s words meant that Narcissa Malfoy had drugged her son—to what ends he couldn’t guess—but he couldn’t work up any anger or curiosity. He had larger problems at the moment.

“—but she may very well be the only one. He has never really known what it is to be loved for who you are. His friends are not like Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger; Slytherin friendships function differently. He has always been lonely, brittle, prone to striking out, and far too willing to listening to his morally-repulsive father. All of this means that he is capable of being, as you say, a prat. But in other conditions, more responsive conditions…”

Harry shook his head numbly.

“I think,” Snape said, still with the disgust of someone picking up someone else’s dirty laundry, “that with your behavior towards him radically altered by the potion, he probably found your foolhardy bravado and wet-eyed compassion overwhelmingly attractive. I think, unlikely as it seems, that Mr. Malfoy has simply and honestly fallen in love with you.” Snape wrinkled his nose. “There’s no accounting for taste, I suppose.”

Harry’s brain hurt. He had a horcrux in him, and he would have to die to stop Voldemort, and Draco was in love with him of his own volition but would have to leave…it was just too much. All of it was just far too much.

“We can’t tell any of them that I’m…what I am,” Harry said. “That’ll derail the search like nothing else. They’ll all start researching how to remove a horcrux from a living thing instead of helping me find the rest of them. It’ll be fights and pity and it’ll take forever to get anything done and in the meantime people will die. And on top of that, Draco will throw a fit, and he’ll make me promise that I won’t let Voldemort kill me, and I’ll try to keep the promise because of the potion…” Harry wanted badly to put his head in his hands, but he couldn’t do anything, not while he was bound. The biggest problem, Harry knew, was that their attempts to save him would give him hope. Hope that he could not afford to have or he might not be able to do what must be done.

“Your friends—and now Draco—are foolishly sentimental. You’re right not to tell them.”

“But at least Hermione and Ron aren’t in danger from me,” Harry said, and sighed. “Eventually, I’ll hurt Draco just like I did today, because the horcrux in me and the potion will take me over again, won’t they?”

“Slower now, perhaps. Having two horcruxes—one of them directly in your flesh—was what really sped the whole thing up. That’s why it took Miss Granger longer to succumb. But yes, the potion and the horcrux together will turn you into the empty vessel you were before, and next time, the Dark Lord himself may sense it and attempt to possess you. Then it won’t only be Draco in danger once more, but the search for the horcruxes as well.”

“I can’t tell Draco that I’ve got a horcrux in me,” Harry said again. “And he won’t go if he doesn’t know, because he’ll think I’m safe to be around. So how do I get him to leave? He won’t go freely.”

“Are you so sure?” Snape tilted his head to the side in curiosity. “After you attempted to rape him? Perhaps you put too much faith in his blind love for you.”

“If he wants to leave, all the better. But no, I don’t think he will. He’s never seemed to have much trouble differentiating between me and the thing driving me to…”

“As it happens, I’m inclined to agree with you.” Snape shifted, looking uncharacteristically regretful. “Beneath the priss and vinegar, the boy is soft inside. He is capricious with others—”

“Stop insulting him,” Harry said.

“—although that may be only because he’s had no one try to earn his loyalty,” Snape finished calmly, raising an eyebrow.

“He’s loyal to you,” Harry said. He felt bizarrely jealous at even the idea that Draco could feel so much for another person—proof positive that he wasn’t as rational as he might hope. “He defended you up and down when we mentioned you might have dosed him. Said you would never do that, that you were decent despite your personality.”

Snape looked slightly surprised—and warmed—by this.

Harry kept going. “If he feels for me even a fraction of what he feels for you, he’ll try to stay. And I’ll end up hurting him.”

“Yes.”

“So what do I tell him?” Harry asked. He felt so tired.

Snape’s eyes went back to the locket. “Tell him that with the absence of the horcrux, the interaction is gone. Let him think the potion has faded. And with it, your feelings for him.”

“That’s…that’s…that can’t be right.”

“Can you think of something better?”

After interminable minutes, Harry asked, “Where else can he go?”

“I’ll take him to Hogwarts. There’s a minor rebellion in place already. I can foist him into the Room of Requirement. As long as the Carrows don’t find him, he should be safe enough.”

All of this talk of Draco was pushing other things away—like Harry’s upcoming death—but this topic wasn’t that much more bearable. Just the idea of letting the other boy go made his hands fist up, as if he could keep Draco from escaping if he clung on by his fingertips.

*

Draco knew he was hiding. There was no reason to avoid going downstairs. Snape was there; he would keep Draco safe. He wasn’t really injured, he’d done nothing wrong, and he was even a little hungry.

But the thought of facing the dipshit twins made his cheeks flush with humiliation, although he had no reason for why that should be so.

The thought of facing Potter was far more upsetting. Not entirely because Potter had been the one whose body had been used for the attempted assault, but because he didn’t know how Potter would be now. Would he revert, as he had a few times before, back to the sweet, kind boy who touched him with gentle hands but spoke wonderfully dirty words hot and soft in his ear? Or would he find the red-tinged eyes and the high, cold voice?

He wasn’t sure.

And worse, he worried that even if it were his Harry standing before him, he might see the monster anyway.

He didn’t think he could bear that.

So he stayed upstairs and tried to sleep and failed miserably.

*

“When will you go?”

“As soon as you’re done rejecting him,” Snape replied. “Just tell him he has to pack and go. Assuming, of course, that he doesn’t do it himself out of upset.”

Harry closed his eyes. “I don’t know if I can hurt him like that.”

“You must,” Snape said without pity. “The mission for the horcruxes is the most important thing, Mr. Potter, and Draco is, at best, a distraction. And it is inevitable that if he remains, he will soon need protection from both the Dark Lord and yourself.”

“I feel like I can’t breathe.”

“It’s the interaction at work,” Snape said, but his frown held doubt. “You wouldn’t feel so strongly without it. And the longer you are away from him, the easier it will be to focus on other things. Without Draco here with you, the potion will lose the vast majority of its power. With it will go the risk of possession.” He stood abruptly. “We’ll tell Mr. Malfoy first, and after we’re gone you can tell your friends whatever you like. It’s best if he doesn’t interact with them again so he doesn’t see that Miss Granger is still very much under the effects of the potion.”

While Harry had no intention of telling Hermione and Ron about the fact that he was a horcrux, he would at least have to explain that the potion was still at work and that he was sending Draco away to protect him. There was no way he could act as though everything were fine indefinitely, and at least this way he would have an excuse for his depression.

He understood why Dumbledore had not told him. When some of the numbness wore off, the knowledge of what he must do might very well become unbearable. For a moment he felt an acute and poisonous hatred for his own life. Had he not given enough yet? Why was such a thing being asked of him? How could he possibly find the strength to die this way when he couldn’t even tell Hermione and Ron?

But then he realized that it was better that he couldn’t tell them. If he did, that would make it real. This way he could avoid the arguments and grief and struggle. Harry already knew it was useless and it would hurt so badly to see them try.

Snape brought out his wand and released the bonds around Harry. Blood and feeling rushed back into his arms, and with it, the anger faded once more into exhaustion and numbness.

Snape studied him, sharp-eyed. “Remember, Mr. Potter, you must behave as though your compulsion towards Draco has completely gone. Try to recall how you felt about him before all of this. Try to recapture some of that animosity. Express a condescending pity, if nothing else. It will offend him, and make him see less clearly.”

Harry only nodded emptily. “I’m never going to see him again after this, am I?”

Snape’s mouth twisted faintly, briefly, with what might have been compassion. “Not if it works.”

*

Draco heard the knock on the door and jumped, but it was Snape’s voice that came through the wood. “Mr. Malfoy, I’ve got Mr. Potter with me. Open the door.”

Draco slid off the bed and turned the knob, disabling the ward as he did so. He steeled himself to look past Snape, terrified that he would see the red-tinged eyes, terrified that even if he didn’t see them he would _feel_ as though he did.

But all he saw was his Harry. Tired and pale and somehow older than he’d been that morning, and he felt so stupid for thinking it could ever be otherwise. With wild relief, Draco darted around Snape and flung himself into the other boy’s arms.

“Are you all right? Are you in pain? What happened?” Draco asked.

He could feel Potter looking at Snape, but he didn’t much care. Everything was better now. Safer.

Potter gripped him tightly, his arms hard, and it felt so good, so right, that it took a few seconds before Draco realized that Potter was pushing him away.

“Is it…are you still…am I setting it off?” Draco asked. He drew back, more than willing to give Potter space if it meant keeping the Dark Lord at bay. Potter’s face didn’t reflect the mad need that it often showed in the past, however. Instead, his features seemed drawn tight. Even vaguely displeased.

“Potter?” Draco asked.

“We’ve something to discuss,” Snape said. “Please be seated, Mr. Malfoy.”

Draco glanced at him, raising an eyebrow. “Are you ever going to call me Draco, sir?”

“Mr. Malfoy,” Snape repeated, rather sourly, and Draco nearly smiled, but then he looked back at Potter, who was slumping into the hard-back chair they’d once fucked on. Draco saw no sign that Potter remembered or, if he did, that he cared. A twist of unease settled in Draco’s gut as he went to sit on the bed.

“The potion which you ingested is called _Opposo Sentima Obsta Desiro._ It functions as a temporary aid to positive feeling toward the drinker. It does this by minimizing or even eliminating negative feelings and associations in those the drinker comes into contact with, and may, depending on the dose, amplify the positive aspects of the drinker. These effects occur only in the minds of those exposed—they do not actually alter the drinker in any way, physically or mentally.”

“What do you mean eliminating negative feelings?” Draco asked.

Snape paused a moment, head tipped to one side as he considered. Then he said, “Mr. Potter, how did you feel about the presence of the Mark on Mr. Malfoy’s arm?”

“I…I never noticed it,” Potter said, sounding taken aback.

“Exactly. The Mark is, no doubt, something that would have provided a great emotional reaction—intrinsically negative—in Mr. Potter, yet it never even came to the forefront of his mind. That is what I mean by elimination. It probably happened in countless other ways as well. Less of an ability to focus on previous conflicts—your attempted murder of Albus Dumbledore, for instance, or the obtuse playacting of a Dementor during a Quidditch match—would be further evidence of this.”

Draco slid a sidelong glance at Potter. “None of those things bother you?”

Potter paused. “I’m bothered by a lot of things at the moment.”

“Potter,” Snape said tightly, giving him a narrow glare.

“They bother me,” Harry said. The look he aimed back was unfriendly at best. Draco figured that wasn’t out of character at all, but that exchange—and Potter’s words—struck him as wrong.

“And what did you mean by amplifying the positive?” he interrupted uncertainly.

“Whatever it is that Mr. Potter liked about you would stay central in his thoughts.”

“His scent,” Potter said, voice quiet. “The way he moves.”

“Just so,” Snape replied.

“And Granger and Weasel…” Draco asked.

“Again, amplify the positive and decrease the negative. Have you not noticed that they are more amenable to your presence and friendship?”

“Granger began to want me.”

“It doesn’t alter a person’s nature. Something about the circumstances appealed to her in a fundamental way.”

“She wasn’t attracted to you until she saw you in a vulnerable position,” Harry replied quietly. “She has a soft heart for people who are struggling.”

Snape’s eyebrow rose. “That explains her inexplicable affection for Mr. Weasley.”

“And Ron’s always hated your guts,” Harry told Draco. “The simple fact that he laughed when he saw we were together instead of losing his shit and turning you in to the Order or the Ministry proves he’s affected too.”

“If it makes people love you,” Draco wondered, “then would it change your orientation?”

Snape paused for a very long time. Then he said, as if he were choosing his words carefully, “No. It simply eases the way. It doesn’t change the nature of those involved. If you’re attracted to Mr. Potter, you are more than likely queer.”

Draco shrugged. He’d refused to see other things about himself in the past. Why should his orientation be any different?

“So that’s why I feel like I only want Potter—”

“No. I didn’t just mean that you were not altered to become what he what he would want, Mr. Malfoy. I mean that you were not altered by the potion at all.”

“It didn’t affect me?” Draco asked numbly. “I’m not under the influence?”

“No.”

“But I’ve caught myself doing things that reflect what he likes about me…”

“Because you want to please him,” Snape said, almost gently. “It’s a matter of conditioning. Behavior. Not magic. Not for you.”

 _Built to fuck._ Well, didn’t that just make him a regular little whore? Draco let out a puff of air, torn between feeling resignation and a bit of dark amusement at the situation. He’d been afraid of this. Now he was sincerely dreading the moment when the potion wore off of Potter. That was going to be humiliating.

And likely quite painful. All of those negative associations would come back and Draco would lose his amplified positive qualities and Potter would be disgusted by him.

Then Potter would leave.

Draco felt rather sick at the thought.

“How…who did this?” Draco asked finally.

“I’m reasonably certain it was your mother,” Snape said.

“What?” Draco shook his head. “I’m sorry, I meant…what?”

“I think she knew you would be running, either of your own volition or because she suggested it. And if there’s one thing this potion is good for, it is in making sure you have a welcome where none would be likely, even if that was with someone in the Order. She was trying to provide for your safety, Draco, in her usual underhanded, secretive manner.”

“She could’ve told me!”

“Not when the Dark Lord might have used legilimency on you before you were able to evade him. You could not be accused of attempting to ensnare him if it went badly.”

Draco glanced at Potter, thoroughly exasperated, absurdly touched, and more than a little annoyed with his mother. “I told you she still loved me.”

Potter did not reply. The unease in Draco’s stomach grew.

“How did this potion result in the Dark Lord crawling around in Potter’s brain?” he asked Snape.

“An interaction between the potion and the horcrux. But it’s no longer a concern. The horcrux has been destroyed, and the effects of the potion have ended.”

That took a few seconds to sink in. Draco blinked in silence, not moving in any other way, and then his eyes slowly went to Potter once more, to the boy who had claimed to love him, who had held him close and stroked his hair, who had let him weep furiously in his arms.

Who now returned his gaze with an expression of near-outright hostility.

“Oh, Merlin,” Draco whispered.

“You’re going to need to leave,” Potter said flatly, sounding as though he’d eaten gravel or something. His voice was deep and hard and squeezed. And possibly not in English, because what Draco thought he’d heard could not be what Potter had actually said.

“What?”

“You need to leave. I want you to go.”

This was not happening. This could not possibly be happening.

“You’re sending me away?”

A muscle ticked in Potter’s jaw. “Yes. Once you’ve packed, Snape has agreed to take you to Hogwarts with him.”

“Hogwarts,” Draco repeated, confused. He felt like he were listening to a conversation with water in his ears. Everything was distorted, words missing. If everyone would just slow down, maybe he could make sense of it.

“Yes. You’ll be safe there. And…there’s really no reason for you to remain.”

Draco gasped for air—apparently he’d forgotten how to inhale. Made sense; there was a hot ball of agony rapidly forming behind his breastbone. How had everything gone so wrong so quickly?

“You can’t,” Draco stuttered. “You said…”

“I know what I said. But that was the potion. It’s gone now. And you’re going to need to pack.”

Potter stood, the chair creaking as he did so, and Draco realized he meant to walk out right then. No more conversation. No chance to debate.

He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t. He couldn’t breathe.

*

Harry had known hate in his life. He’d felt it directed at him, certainly, by the murderer of his parents, by countless men and women in hoods and masks, even by the two people standing in this room. He had known what it was to feel it, as well, for those same people. He knew the heat of it, the way it burned and drove and forced action. The way it craved the pure destruction of another living thing. The way it made you want pain. Oh, yes, Harry was intimately familiar with hatred.

But he had never hated himself.

Not until now, as he stood, trying desperately to maintain his façade while Draco buckled in front of him.

“Wait,” Draco whispered. “Please. Let me…let’s discuss this.”

“There’s nothing to discuss,” Harry said. He kept his voice hard, although watching Draco’s responding flinch made him clench his teeth. “It’s done. Pack.”

“Gods, don’t…I can fix it…I know y-you don’t love me anymore, but maybe if you just give me a chance I can…I’ll show you. I’m not who I was, Harry. I’m not. If you give me ten minutes…five. Let me…”

Harry inhaled sharply. Christ, this was killing him. He could feel the pressure of it expanding within him, lighting him up with misery. He didn’t know if it was his heart or the potion at work, but everything in him ached to go to the other boy, to kiss him and cuddle him close and tell him he was beautiful and perfect and deserved all of Harry’s love—indeed, that he still had it.

Facing Voldemort in the cemetery hadn’t been this hard. This was up there with losing Sirius.

 _I’m never going to see him again_ , Harry thought, and felt something inside him shrivel and blacken.

“Two minutes!” Draco cried, clearly on the verge of panic.

Harry closed his eyes. The compulsion to give in was nearly overpowering. He found himself nodding without really meaning to.

Snape stood quickly. “I believe this is where I leave you. I’ll be waiting downstairs in the study once you’ve packed and finished with…” He waved a hand at the room at large, clearly meaning _all this drama._ Then, with a last, pointed glare that warned Harry not to cave, he swept out, closing the door behind him.

“Two minutes,” Harry ground out.

Draco took part of that time to force a deep breath. Harry could see him trying to calm down, to think of the right words.

“I’ve changed,” Draco began. “I know I’ve done a lot of really bad things. I’m not…not worthy of you right now. I know that. But I’m getting better. I’m trying, really, and Harry, I…”

Harry couldn’t listen to any more of it. Steeling himself, he said, “Is that it?”

Draco clambered off the bed and hesitantly approached until he stood directly in front of him. From here, Harry could catch a hint of Draco’s clean scent from the shower he must’ve taken not so long ago. And the sweetness underneath that was purely Draco ( _pure evil,_ he thought affectionately, and had to take a deep breath.)

“We’re good together,” Draco murmured. “We complement each other. You make me better.”

“And what do you do for me?” Harry asked.

Draco gave him a smile that was at once sly and self-deprecating. “I make you come.”

Harry nearly groaned. He did close his eyes—the sight of Draco’s hopeful, vulnerable expression made the guilt swim up violently.

“I can show you,” Draco whispered, taking a step even closer. Harry could feel the radiating warmth of his body. Smell toothpaste on his breath. “Harry, let me remind you how good it can be.”

“Are you offering to let me fuck you?” Harry managed. “Are you so desperate? Is this what you are then?”

Draco flinched, and Harry felt the anger leak out a little. He made a noise—equal parts growl of frustration and groan of pain. Every instinct he had was telling him to stop what he was doing because this _hurt_. His brain was in shock, wondering just what the fuck was wrong with him. _Why are you cutting your own arm off, arsehole? That’s bad for us._

He couldn’t keep himself from leaning in a tiny bit and inhaling deeply of Draco’s scent.

He ached to pull the other boy into his arms.

“Harry,” Draco choked out. He reached out tentatively, as if he thought Harry might knock his hand away. Harry probably should, he thought, but then Draco’s cool fingers were on his cheek, making everything inside him twist with fury.

“Why are you doing this?” he snapped. “Why are you making this so _hard?”_

Draco jerked, swallowed. “I’m not trying to—”

“You’re just drawing it out. I’m trying to be kind, but you’re pushing it, just like you always do, pushing me, and you’re going to force me to be cruel—”

“No,” Draco said, shaking his head, but Harry was trembling now. He wanted to scream at Draco, maybe even shove the other boy away, to punish him for not understanding. Harry was trying to do the right thing, despite his pain, despite the potion’s urgings. Why wouldn’t Draco just go so Harry could break down?

“What do you need to hear?” With a brief stab of _you’re a fucking bastard, Harry,_ he added, “Don’t you have any damn pride? Are you truly going to stand there and beg?”

Without thinking, he clenched his hands around Draco’s upper arms, yanked him close, throwing the most vicious words he could think of into the other boy’s face, because in a few seconds, if Draco didn’t leave, Harry would collapse.

“Do you want me to think you’re pathetic? You’re succeeding.”

Harry would never be quite sure which one of them moved; he seemed to lose a few seconds there, and when next his brain came back online, all he could think about was the press of lips, the slide of tongue, the maddening mouth beneath his. Whoever had started it didn’t matter. Harry had control, and he kissed Draco violently, forcing his head back, sweeping inside, hot and wet and cruel, a kiss that might leave bruises. He tasted blood; didn’t care.

He couldn’t stop, not when Draco was making those wonderful little noises. Not with Draco’s hands locked in his hair.

Then they were on the bed and it was moving so fast, so very fast, and he got lost in the feel of that slim, firm body beneath his. Draco was writhing, lifting his hips. Their legs intertwined even as Harry pressed still closer.

 _This is wrong,_ he thought distantly. This was going to be breakup sex in a few seconds—if it wasn’t already. And breakup sex was just about the most callous mixed message someone could give to a partner. Yet Harry couldn’t stop. Maybe it was the potion thundering through his veins.

Maybe it was just the way he craved Draco.

But he couldn’t stop.

He rolled his hips, feeling their cocks come into alignment through their clothes, and barked out a curse at the sensation. The shock of it raced up and down his spine. Draco’s breath was heaving with wordless begging sounds as his hands clutched Harry to him.

Then Harry was kissing the smooth skin of Draco’s neck. He bit gently, squeezed his eyes tightly shut at the way the other boy shuddered. He licked and kissed and slid his teeth over every inch he could reach, then began to undo buttons blindly, with his face still buried in the curve of Draco’s throat.

Soon their shirts were gone, and it was bare skin against bare skin at last.

He found Draco’s nipples, reaching up with one hand to momentarily cup the other boy’s face, finding tears on his fingertips. With the other hand, he began to pull at their belts, one and then the other. And all the while he worried the small bud of flesh, listening rapturously to Draco’s mewls.

“You want me to fuck you?” Harry asked bitterly.

“Yes,” Draco gasped.

“Do you? Is this how you want it?”

“Yes!”

Harry shook his head against Draco’s chest. “Why are you doing this to me?”

Draco just arched his back, rising into another ration of kisses.

Harry’s hands were too hard, he knew. He might leave bruises, and he tried to pull back. He didn’t want to hurt his Draco, after all. Instead, he dipped his head, running lips and tongue over narrow hips, the sweet dip of navel, then up again and back to those tempting, pink little nipples. He couldn’t seem to give them up.

Draco was yanking at his jeans. Harry obliged, shoving them down, and then sitting up to help Draco kick off his shoes and trousers. The long, pale lines of the other boy tempted Harry wildly. He could almost block out the voice in the back of his head telling him this was needlessly cruel.

But God, he wanted this. Just once more, he told himself. Before he lost Draco for good.

One last time.

He tried to slow down, back up, working his way to Draco’s mouth, kissing him long and deep until the other boy melted under him.

For a second Harry had to stop. He pressed his face against Draco’s shoulder, battling tears. This was what he loved most about being with the other boy—the way he gave himself to Harry with utter abandon. There was such power in it, and whenever it happened, Harry wasn’t sure which of them was more enthralled.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured. “Christ, you’re so beautiful.”

Draco’s hands moved over his back and shoulders, loving, delicate, and Harry forced himself to shut up before he said something that tipped his plan, something that put the search for the horcruxes—and Draco—at risk.

He worked his way over Draco’s body, memorizing pale skin, long limbs, tight muscle and firm, sinewy flesh. He tasted, stroked, held. The urge to stay slow, to remember, competed with the wildness burning through him, the need to take, to have. He spread Draco’s knees, slipping between lean thighs and trailed his mouth up over the lovely, hard cock. When he took Draco deep, he was the one who moaned.

He felt the thickness bump the back of his throat and adjusted the angle to go even deeper. Pre-come tinged the taste, and Harry suckled. His cheeks hollowed and Draco cried out.

When he pulled off several minutes later, Draco was twisting beneath him, hips thrusting blindly.

“Lube,” Harry rasped.

Draco didn’t seem to hear him. Harry rose up over him, opening drawers, finding what he was looking for. He raised an eyebrow, thinking of the last time they’d had sex in this room, how they hadn’t had lube, and realized Draco had prepared for this eventuality weeks ago, just in case. “Tricky minx,” he muttered, shaking his head at the boy trembling beside him.

Then he was settling back between Draco’s thighs. He pushed a slick finger in, right past the tight ring of muscle. “You’re sucking me in,” Harry murmured. “You want it, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Draco whispered. “Please, Harry.”

“Don’t worry, I’m going to fuck you.” Harry inserted a second finger, scissoring. Stretching. “I’m going to fuck you so hard you’ll remember me for weeks. Would you like that?”

“Do it. Please.”

He couldn’t wait. He sat up, his hands on Draco’s hips, pulling the smaller boy into position. As soon as Draco was in the right place, Harry shoved in.

It was every bit as hard as he’d promised, and Draco, the hedonistic brat, simply opened himself up and took all of it. His hips bumped up in time to Harry’s thrusts. His legs came to twine tightly around Harry’s waist.

The feel of Draco’s arse…hot and wet and so very fucking tight…it maddened him. Harry could feel the scrape of muscle, gripping him so tightly the top of his head threatened to come off. His skin hummed. Sweat had long since formed, and he held Draco open and pistoned inside him. He knew he would leave marks and gloried in it. Mine, he thought. Mine.

He wasn’t sure how he managed to avoid saying that out loud.

Harry couldn’t stop thrusting, despite the fact that the cruelty of it all stung. This hurt. God, this hurt. And yet it was the most pleasurable pain he’d ever known. Still he moved inside the other boy— _hold on, don’t come, keep it going forever—_ and struggled to keep his mouth shut so he wouldn’t whisper all the things he shouldn’t. Things like _stay_ and _never leave me_ and _I love you._

His hand found Draco’s cock, and he used the pre-come dripping from the head to ease the friction. He tugged gently. Draco cried out.

“Christ,” Harry gasped out. He could feel the burning inside, gathering in his balls. He meant to slow down, to make it last, but his cock had a mind of its own. He thrust wildly now, viciously, still working Draco’s hard flesh, captivated by the mindless struggles of the boy beneath him. Draco was crying in truth now, openly and hard, his nails digging into Harry’s arms hard enough to draw blood.

As if he thought that if he could just hold on tightly enough he could keep Harry with him. Those gray eyes were locked on his face, even now wet and leaking, even as he tossed his head back and forth on the pillow. Draco needed him, just as much as he needed Draco.

His anger rushed back. No, fury was a better word. Rage, even. Because he wanted this. He wanted this boy more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life. Harry deserved to have something. He was going to fucking die soon, and all he wanted was this boy and it wasn’t fucking fair. And to look down into that face, to see his own pain reflected back, was just too damn hard.

He stopped, pulled out on the verge of orgasm. Draco gave a high-pitched wail of protest.

“Roll over,” Harry said, his wrath evident from the way Draco blinked.

“Harry,” he asked, entreating.

“I can’t look at you,” Harry bit out. _Not if I hope to follow through with this._

Draco took the words differently; he seemed to sag into the mattress, but despite the hot wedge of hate and guilt that the reaction prompted in Harry, he didn’t amend it.

Draco swallowed and slowly obeyed.

With a rough hand, Harry yanked the other boy’s hips up into the air. “Stay like that,” he barked, and swept a pillow underneath him. Then Harry drove in again, back into the heat and pressure. His eyes nearly rolled back in his head.

Draco scrambled at the sheets to keep from being shoved forward, even as the force of Harry’s thrusts made him gasp.

“You want to come, don’t you?” Harry asked. “That’s what this is about, isn’t it? So lift your fucking hips, Malfoy. Move for me.”

With an exhale and a bowed head, Draco moved. He was lithe and graceful and elegant, every bit Harry’s little cat, and the tears Harry had needed to hide spilled over.

_Beautiful. Mine._

The pressure built, and he shifted his angle slightly, searching for the right spot. Draco bucked against him and he kept to it, stroking over and over, watching desperately as the other boy fell apart underneath him. That perfect body twisted and bucked and wriggled, and Harry was close. So close.

He kept going, driving in, and then Draco gave a last, strangled cry and came. Untouched. And just the idea of it made Harry follow, the heat rising through him like a wave until he shouted through the undertow.

He bent forward, letting his forehead drop to the hollow between Draco’s shoulder blades. Tears slid down his nose onto pale skin, but he thought they would be mistaken for sweat and didn’t worry. He simply breathed, eyes closed, and felt the quivering body beneath him for the last time.

 _I love you, little cat,_ he mouthed against Draco’s back. _Please forgive me._

He forced himself to pull out of the clasp of Draco’s body, and turned away fast, wiping his eyes. The other boy lay still as Harry began to dress. He had to go. He had to get out of here. If he didn’t finish this now he would break.

“So.” Even though his disgust was directed at himself rather than Draco, Harry used it to good effect, letting it color his words. “Is that what you wanted, Malfoy?”

Draco turned his head in Harry’s direction but kept his head on the pillow. He was pale and his gray eyes hollow. He looked haunted. He looked broken. This, Harry thought, would be what he remembered until the day he died. This shell he’d left behind.

_I can’t do this I can’t do this I can’t do this._

“Pack and get out,” he said. Then he fled.

He went to his bedroom, locked the door, cast a silencing charm.

And screamed.

*

This couldn’t be it.

Those four words kept circling in Draco’s mind. Over and over. A rejection of reality, a plea for dreaming. This couldn’t be it. This couldn’t be the end. This wasn’t the way it happened.

As he dressed. As he put clothes in his bag. As he once more stole Potter’s toothpaste. As he walked down the stairs and heard the creak of the fourth, as familiar as any complaining floorboard in the Manor by this point. As he met his professor in the front hall, catching a glimpse of what seemed to be outright shock and worry in those black eyes as they came to rest on Draco’s face. Those same four words.

This couldn’t be it.

“Draco,” Snape whispered. Was that sympathy Draco heard? No. It couldn’t be. Because this couldn’t be it.

Draco suspected that Granger and Weasel and Ha—Potter were behind the closed door to the parlor, but he couldn’t hear anything. It was absolutely silent.

Snape moved hesitantly, as if he weren’t sure what to do. A gentle finger brushed his cheek once, but Draco barely felt it. When Snape opened the front door to Grimmauld Place, Draco stalled. He couldn’t leave. Because then, if Harry changed his mind, he wouldn’t be able to find Draco. And he would _have_ to change his mind.

Because this couldn’t be it.

He thought this as Snape’s hand closed on his elbow. He thought it as he was propelled forward, out onto the stoop. As he blinked in the aggressive autumn sunlight. As he surveyed a street full of Muggles, walking in the cool afternoon, going about their ordinary business as if this were an ordinary day. He was outside, but he could still go back in. He could wait for Harry to realize. He would go back in, he would, and Harry would come down the stairs and say how wrong he’d been and take Draco into his arms, those strong arms, and press Draco close, and everything would be all right, really it would, just as soon as he went back in. It would be right again.

Because this couldn’t be it.

And Snape closed the door behind them.


End file.
